Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Luke Skywalker is the biggest idiot in the entire galaxy, and it takes him six months to realize. 

He carefully gathers all the adrenaline from the fight with the battle droids earlier, clutching it close to his chest and then releasing it into the Force like an exhale, allowing room in his heart to beat slower and his mind to clear.

From his lap, Grogu blinks, eyes wide and mouth hung open like he can taste the way Luke released his emotions.

“Clarity is important for a Jedi,” Luke tells the little creature.

“Bwah,” Grogu replies eloquently.

There is something so impossibly bright about Grogu’s presence that feels like he’s peering into the sun, so much feeling trapped inside such a small creature. It reminds Luke of himself, in a way, before the weight of the galaxy was forced on his shoulders.

No use in getting bummed out right now, though, he’s got things to do.

Luke sighs and thinks about the state he left that ship in. There was the redhead woman with eyes that could cut steel, the buff woman with the New Republic tattoo, and the—

The Mandalorian.

He’d managed to look away when he saw the hand reaching to pull up his helmet, but he still caught a brief glimpse of a patch of facial hair that feels like a mistake to have witnessed. The redhead took off her helmet so easily, but the way the Mandalorian reached up with trembling hands… it felt like he was doing something wrong and right at the same time.

“I hope your father will come visit soon,” Luke wonders aloud. He can’t help but feel an innate sense of curiosity towards the Mandalorian. The Force seems to flow around him in waves—curious, but never close.

His quiet nature and soft voice juxtaposed with the violent and blunt nature of his people… he’s a walking contradiction wrapped in a shiny beskar bow, and Luke wants to know more.

At the mention of his father, Grogu burbles happily, sending waves upon waves of safe warm safe happy safe love love love into the Force with a beautifully childlike innocence. It’s mesmerizing, something to behold, and Luke can’t wait to introduce Grogu to the rest of the school.

Well, “school” might be putting it nicely.

Luke had found a small, ancient Jedi temple on a tiny Outer Rim planet. The planet itself is a lush, thick jungle, and the temple seems to have been a temporary location, not nearly as big as what he’s heard other temples were.

No, this one is crawling with ivy at the top of a hill, a safe refuge for only a hundred people at once. Luke imagines it was most likely a temporary safe place, somewhere to meditate and train for only a few weeks.

Oddly enough, the planet seems to be largely left alone, mostly due to the smorgasbord of wild animals and creatures inhabiting the planet. For purposes of caution, Luke always advises his students to not stray far from the temple—as unbothered as the creatures seem now, he’s unsure of how they would feel if he went too far into their lands.

Scaled borcatus roam lazily around the jungle floors, frogs and snakes and hundreds of avian creatures hop and fly about, but they all seem to give the temple a wide berth—less out of fear and more out of politeness.

Luke wonders what sort of kindnesses the previous Jedi offered to this planet to receive such a warm welcome.

He makes sure to project a few of these feelings as best he can through the Force—warm, humid air, buzzing wildlife, cool breezes in the day and crackling fires at night.

Grogu claps his clawed hands together and babbles in excitement, and Luke can’t help but break out into a brilliant grin. He leans back in his seat, watching the stars blur past, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.

Everything is most certainly not okay.

Two days, Luke despairs, letting his frustration seep out of his body and into the Force like dragon’s breath. He was gone for two days, and one of his students managed to explode one of the training columns.

At least they have the nerve to look a little sheepish, projecting shame and apologies into the Force with enough sincerity to make Luke’s frustration feel silly and unnecessary.

“I thought you said you didn’t need a babysitter,” he teases lightly, looking between his three students for an answer.

The youngest, Meeko, crosses both sets of arms and turns his head away. He’s around six years old, with six eyes and four arms, and even with his strange anatomy being a juxtaposition to his otherwise human traits, he’s still absolutely adorable.

Xel is ten years old, and the proud owner of his very own made-up language he uses to talk to rocks. Patches of his green skin are covered in glimmering scales, and his forked tongue tends to poke out of his mouth when he dozes off.

Finally, Faralda sits innocently on the marble floor, freckled face lacking any sort of guilt or embarrassment. She’s the oldest, at thirteen, and she has taken to meditation like a fish to water, readily accepting the Force with an open mind and heart.

When none of them confess to the broken pieces of column in the training grounds outside, Luke sighs and sets a curious Grogu down on the ground.

“This is Grogu,” he introduces, “He’s our newest student.”

Xel wrinkles his nose. “He’s a baby.”

“I’d imagine he’s around fifty years old now,” Luke corrects his student, whose jaw drops in shock at the news, “Creatures like him age much slower than you and I.”

“Bleblebleble,” Grogu agrees readily.

Luke looks at each of his three students and comes to a decision. “His father is a Mandalorian, you know,” he says offhandedly.

He pushes a smug satisfaction away as all three students gasp in unison, hurrying over to Luke as he strides through the empty halls of the temple. Faralda and Xel scramble over to Luke, barraging him with questions.

“A Mandalorian?”

“Is he one of the weird ones that never takes off his helmet?”

“Does he have beskar armor?”

“Can he fight off thirty people at once?”

“Does he look like Grogu?”

Luke allows the questions to wash over him and fizzle out. Harnessing curiosity into energy is a feat much easier said than done, but he soon starts to gain a pep in his step after the long X-Wing ride through hyperspace.

He loves being a teacher. It makes him feel like less of a bumbling idiot.

Grogu whines in frustration, unable to keep up the pace with his waddling body. Without a second thought, Meeko scoops him up, tucking him onto his shoulder with one of his arms.

Luke sends Meeko a small breeze of gratitude, and the boy’s face cracks into a tiny smile, crinkling four of his eyes.

The training grounds are a large marble circle, almost like a miniature amphitheater. It juts out the back of the temple, the edge of it dropping off the hill like a cliff. Luke remembers the others being too terrified to go near the edge, but after a demonstration from a brave Faralda stepping off the edge, they are now confident in Luke’s ability to catch them.

That being said, none of them are allowed to be in the training grounds without Luke’s presence, just in case something was to happen.

The four of them—five, with Grogu—sit cross-legged on the edge of the marble, breathing in unison. Luke notes with mild amusement that Grogu immediately follows suit without even being told what to do.

“Never be afraid to feel,” Luke instructs, “Feeling is what makes us individual, what makes us special. When we release feelings into the Force, we are not ridding ourselves of emotion. Faralda, will you tell us what the goal of releasing feelings is?”

Without opening his eyes, he feels Faralda’s brow furrow in thought. “To save them for later?” she asks, uncertainty clouding her mind.

“Close,” Luke urges.

“Clarity?” Xel pipes up.

Luke nods his head. “That’s right,” he says, “Ignoring a feeling completely will only put it into hiding—there is no permanent solution to bad feelings. Releasing feelings promotes clarity and rationality, something all Jedi must have.”

You are the biggest hypocrite in the entire galaxy, he tells himself.

“Alright,” Luke opens his eyes and notes, not without an inkling of pride, that every student is floating three feet in the air, “You’re all lucky I’m tired—take the rest of the day off. Did Garbor guard the temple like he promised?”

Garbor is an enormous beast of a cat, covered in spikes and a fierce protector of the Jedi temple. Every time Luke has gone past Garbor, however, the cat seems aloof and apathetic, uncaring, but when Luke was stressing over who to watch over the kids, Garbor had parked himself right in front of the temple with knowing eyes. Was it wise for Luke to leave his students alone with nothing but the Force and a dangerous cat?

Maybe. He should really try and find a good babysitter for them.

Faralda nods, Grogu now in her arms instead of Meeko’s. “He fought off a snake the other day,” she announces proudly.

They really need a new babysitter, Luke reiterates mentally, watching with equal parts fondness and dread as his students start a game of rock-push, even allowing Grogu to take a few turns. He proves to be a lethal opponent, and it takes less than five minutes before it all descends into mayhem.

When Luke goes to bed that night, he expects to fall asleep easily, what with the exhaustion of his day and all the battling he did. The Force ebbs and flows around him, inhaling and exhaling alongside him as he rakes his mind for what might be preventing sleep.

It doesn’t take long for his mind to offer an image of the beskar-plated Mandalorian, armor reflecting any light source that comes near. The Mandalorian is about as Force-sensitive as Han—which is to say, not at all—but something about the blade attached to his belt sends waves of energy into the Force that cannot be ignored.

Luke tries to distract himself by thinking about the others on that ship. The redheaded woman seemed bitter, warring with her own emotions and thoughts that it felt like staring into a tornado. Even with her tight expression and peculiar mannerisms, she barely even crosses his mind before he’s back to thinking about the Mandalorian.

How did someone like him manage to get his hands on someone like Grogu? Why is their bond so tight, so close to one another? They clearly weren’t raised together, not when Grogu is treated like a son rather than an equal, so how long have they known each other?

Surely, with such a tight bond, this means the Mandalorian will come visit soon, right?

Six months pass by, quick as a breeze, and Luke has never felt more pride toward his students. Every single one of them is making fantastic progress towards their own path, accepting the Force as something to trust, to mold their spirit with faith in themselves.

Faralda has taken to practicing graceful movements, almost looking like a dance as the pebbles and rocks around her flow with her hand movements, entranced by the waves of peace that ebb off her Force signature effortlessly.

Xel took to begging Luke for a lightsaber, and, partially to please him and partially to get him to stop begging, Luke gave him a wooden quarterstaff to practice with. His connection to the Force does not flow like so many others. No, he’ll need many more years of training before he can achieve that. Rather, he is a whirlwind, uncertain of the Force and too frightened to lean into it until he throws his whole being into it.

Meeko is shy with the Force, but with Grogu’s help, he has managed to let it take the reins for short periods of time. He has power, so much power, but he always acts too afraid to take it, always backing away when he gets too close.

“Come in,” Luke says softly, well into the hours of the night. Two Force signatures are outside his door, familiar and almost bonded together like brothers.

Meeko shuffles past the door and into Luke’s large, mostly barren room. Grogu sits comfortably in one of his arms, shoveling berries into his mouth happily. Uncertainty hugs Meeko’s Force signature as he glances at the broken windows, ivy crawling into the room greedily.

“Grogu’s homesick,” Meeko explains, glancing at Grogu’s blue-stained mouth quickly, “I’ve been sneaking him food to distract him, but he’s always so sad at night. I don’t know what to do.”

Luke’s mouth pulls into a frown. He’s certain that Yoda won’t be proud of this, but at the moment, he doesn’t really care. After all, look where the old Jedi ways got them.

He’s never really had to deal with families before. His students’ families either don’t exist or cast them out like stones, so he’s never had to approach this subject.

“Grogu has a very tight bond with his father,” Luke says, patting the floor next to him for the students to sit.

Meeko’s eyebrows furrow as Grogu sits in his lap. “I thought Jedi weren’t allowed to have attachments?” he asks.

Luke blows a breath of air out, fast and heavy. “I don’t know,” he admits, giving Grogu a tired smile, “The old Jedi ways warned of attachment leading to possession, which ultimately drags one to the path of the Dark Side.”

Meeko tilts his head. “But?”

“Depriving a person of any and all possessions only leads to something worse in the end,” Luke continues.

Just like my father.

“Life, the Force, love… it’s all about balance, is it not? If I rip a child away from his father, does that make me any better than the imperials stealing little kids in the night to become stormtroopers?”

Meeko looks at the ground. “I guess…”

“Grogu’s father has not shown up yet,” Luke tells Meeko, whose four eyes soften in sympathy, “I find it uncharacteristic.”

It’s weird that the Mandalorian hasn’t shown up—and not just because of his inability to rid him from his thoughts. The Mandalorian obviously loves Grogu, it was obvious from the way his hands shook during their goodbye, and how he took off his helmet in front of a group of people.

He’s not too familiar on how Mandalorians work, but something about the way he reached for his helmet… it felt like he was doing something he shouldn’t, all out of love.

It just doesn’t make sense to Luke. Why would someone who cares so much about their son leave him for six months without ever visiting?

Later that night, Luke contacts Leia through his holo-projector, sighing in relief at the sight of his happy and healthy sister flickering in front of him.

“Don’t look so happy to see me,” Leia teases as she works on her hair, “What’s bothering you?”

Leia’s probably the busiest person in the universe right now, what with her work on the New Republic as a senator being similar to pulling teeth in terms of reward and gain. Luke would either explode or pass out if he tried to live like her for even an hour.

“Grogu’s father still hasn’t visited him,” Luke admits, awestruck by the way Leia expertly pins up her hair without even needing a mirror, “I don’t follow the old Jedi ways, Leia, his family is allowed to visit, and it’s obvious his father loves him, so why hasn’t he visited?”

Leia’s projection manages to perfectly portray her blank, Luke-you-are-the-biggest-moron-in-the-entire-kriffing-galaxy face, even through a spotty hologram. “Have you told him?”

“Told him what?”

Leia’s palm meets her face with an audible slap. “Luke, unless you specifically told him, he’ll most likely assume you’re the same as any old Jedi,” she explains not-so-patiently.

What?

That’s ridiculous. Luke isn’t any old Jedi, he’s one of the last remaining ones, and he’s changed around a few rules to make it better! Why would…

Does the Mandalorian think he’s not allowed to see Grogu again?

Was his goodbye to Grogu a final goodbye?

Is that why he took off his helmet?

Does he—

Oh.

Oh, kriff.

At Luke’s stunned silence, Leia raises her eyebrows. “Please don’t attempt to track him down right now,” she advises.

“Track who down?” Han’s voice calls from somewhere nearby.

“Luke made a Mandalorian think he permanently abandoned his son!” Leia shouts back, and Luke’s whole face flushes red with embarrassment and horror.

“He probably thinks I’m a monster,” he whispers, bile rising in his throat, “I need to find him.”

Leia rolls her eyes. “How about, instead of going on a blind chase around the galaxy, you come up with a plan?” she suggests.

Luke groans, frustration threatening to boil his blood, but he shuts his eyes and exhales his irritation into the Force. There’s no time for wallowing in his own stupidity, he can do that later, when he’s beating up his pillows for his own mistakes.

“Han and I can ask around for his whereabouts,” Leia offers, adjusting invisible stray hairs, “It shouldn’t take too long to locate a Mandalorian in head-to-toe beskar. Then, after we find him, you can fall on your own lightsaber while begging for forgiveness.”

She could have done without that last part, but it’s a more solid plan than Luke’s idea of “scour every single planet until he happens to run into a grieving Mandalorian father”.

“What about my students?” Luke asks. “I don’t want to leave them in the care of Garbor again.”

Leia shrugs smoothly. “Han has been telling me I need a break,” she says, a ghost of a smile threatening to make its way onto her face.

“And you want to spend it making sure four children don’t blow themselves up?”

Leia’s smile swiftly disappears. “If it’ll give you peace of mind, then yes. I can practically hear your brain warring with itself. I can watch over them for three days—is that enough time for you?”

Luke’s heart aches with a bottomless pit of gratitude for his sister. She’s a saint, he’s certain of it, a foul-mouthed angel sent from the heavens to be everything Luke will never be.

“Plenty of time,” he agrees, “Leia, I can’t thank you eno—”

Leia raises her hand. “You don’t have to,” she says, “I already know. I think you’ll feel a whole lot better once you smooth over this misunderstanding.”

You have no idea, Luke thinks. “Let me know when you’ve located the Mandalorian, okay?”

Leia nods dutifully before glancing at something nearby—short on time for a meeting, most likely. “Don’t make me regret this,” she warns, the holo-projector fizzling out at those words.

Luke flops down on his back, breathing in the humid air and thinking about everything and nothing all at once.

First and foremost, he wants to clear up this misunderstanding with Grogu’s father. The guilt is eating him alive the longer he goes on without saying anything, now that he knows the Mandalorian is most likely grappling with the idea that he will never see his son again.

Another part of him is flattered that the Mandalorian has so much trust in him. It’s selfish, and he wars with his mind about it, but his reasoning isn’t entirely altruistic in nature.

No, he wants to learn about this mysterious Mandalorian and his circumstances. The strange way the Force acts around him, the way his beskar armor radiates a thousand emotions protected by a heavy shield of disconnected apathy, the way his voice is a juxtaposition of soft and commanding.

That’s alright, though. He can kill two womp rats with one stone.

I’ll make sure you see your son again, Mandalorian, Luke vows into the Force, I promise.

Chapter Text

Luke is not the benevolent, all-knowing Jedi that people make him out to be.

A tiny part of him, no matter how much he does for other people, and how good he is to those around him, will always be selfish.

That little part of him is singing with glee as he expertly pilots his X-wing through hyperspace, breathing in the oxygen from his ship and exhaling the greed out of his system. He loves his students, truly, but getting to be out in space makes him feel like his younger self again—doe-eyed and willing to take on the world.

Stop acting like you’re old, a little voice pipes up in his head that sounds irritatingly like Han Solo, you’re still a kid, still in your twenties.

According to Leia, the last known location of the Mandalorian was last night, on Coruscant of all places. Why couldn’t have been somewhere easier to navigate, like Tattoine? Kriff, even Hoth would have been easier to track him down in, even with its freezing cold tundra and the not-so-great memories attached to it.

He’s got no clue what a Mandalorian’s business would be on Coruscant, but he supposes it isn’t his business. The crowded streets and buzzing noise will make it difficult to track him down, but not impossible—never impossible.

As long as Luke trusts in the Force, nothing is truly impossible.

These words echo in his mind almost like a mantra, safe in its uncertainty as Luke arrives at his destination, already overwhelmed by the millions of emotions buzzing in the dark, gloomy air.

Despite its bustling status, Coruscant is by no means a happy planet. The ashes of war still weigh heavy on the shoulders of its elder residents, passing down into the hearts of the generations below. Everyone’s heart holds a heavy dose of cynicism and defeat, rumors of Imperial moles tainting their hearts with fear and worry.

It’s the perfect place to hide from enemies. Luke wonders if this Mandalorian is similar to Boba Fett—is he a bounty hunter? Does he trap people in carbonite for credits?

As much as he disapproves of the idea of being a bounty hunter, he supposes that a person must make a living somehow, especially in times like these, with so few Mandalorians remaining, and their home plant reduced to nothing but ruins.

Not everyone sees the world like you do, he reminds himself bitterly, watching as a gentle rain, barely heavier than a mist, fogs up the neon signs scattered all around the city, bathing the planet in a gloomy darkness.

There are too many noises to meditate easily, Luke realizes. Shoes splashing in puddles, the low murmur of hushed discussions between hurried citizens, droids and loud machinery whizzing past apathetically, shouting from cantinas and apartments.

Luke takes a deep breath, in the middle of the bustling walkway, and shuts his eyes. Thousands of feelings and emotions swirl through the air, near and far, and the rain drips from his robes.

The rain means nothing, the noises mean nothing, the lights mean nothing when Luke is calm, in control, and searching for something. Buildings hold no borders, everything is close if Luke believes it truly is.

Something is close.

The Force moves curiously, intrigued but unwilling to provide what it has allowed Luke. The Mandalorian, he realizes with a sharp intake of breath, he’s nearby.

Luke keeps his eyes closed and takes a step forward. With each step he takes, the presence grows stronger, although it seems to be moving away. Keeping the presence, the strange waver in the Force close, he opens his eyes and lets his body move where the Force guides it.

Soon enough, the Mandalorian becomes visible, and Luke’s eyes widen at how overwhelming his presence is when there aren’t fizzling battle droids and other important people around.

Rain cascades off the shiny beskar armor, reflecting neon purples and blues from the signs all around the city, blending in with the city yet announcing such a loud presence at the same time, as though he couldn’t possibly care about stealth.

Luke supposes it would be difficult to be stealthy when wearing a heavy set of armor, but it still exudes a certain confidence, nevertheless. He moves with purpose, certain in every step, visor staring straight ahead, not once bothering to look behind him.

Muffled music with heavy bass is playing in one of the nearby buildings, and the Mandalorian stops in his tracks. Unperturbed, Luke ducks behind a street sign, watching closely as the Mandalorian tilts his helmet up towards the building.

Unable to see his face, Luke can only assume he’s scanning the building. Why doesn’t he just walk in? Do they have security?

Carefully, Luke reaches out with the Force. The Mandalorian is focused, calm, but an ugly whirlwind of emotion is simmering just beneath it, rage, grief, and despair battling it out for dominance under the guise of a collected Mandalorian.

Guilt bubbles up in Luke’s gut at the thought of him causing these emotions, all because he forgot to explain how he did things. How could he be so stupid?

Losing yourself in the past will close the door to the future, Luke tells himself, folding away his guilt to dig through at a later time, when he has fewer pressing issues ahead. Next time he meditates with his students, he will take some time to focus on the reasons for his guilt.

The Mandalorian moves with slow, practiced motions, pulling his blaster out of his belt so slowly that it doesn’t make a sound, pointing it towards the door.

Oh, kriff, is he about to witness a murder? Bounty hunters don’t kill their bounties, right? Right?

The door creaks open, and a small creature barely gets a single step out the door before the Mandalorian’s blaster is slamming into their head with the enough strength to make a loud thwack. He moves swiftly, confidently, so fast that Luke barely sees a blur of beskar before the creature is collapsed on the ground in an unconscious heap.

The Mandalorian tucks his blaster back into his belt and pulls out a pair of cuffs, expertly cuffing the creature in a matter of seconds and hauling him onto his shoulder.

As the bounty hunter (presumably) walks through the streets, Luke tries to brainstorm a good way to approach him without getting shot at or engaging in a fight. He can’t imagine the Mandalorian would take well to being startled.

It’s easy to stay hidden on a landing dock, what with all the containers scattered across the room and ships to duck behind. The Mandalorian’s ship is small—old, but in decent shape, and Luke glances away with a shudder when he hears the sound of hissing carbonite.

He creeps closer to the ship, ducking behind a nearby container when he feels the Mandalorian’s hand rest carefully on his blaster.

“I would be careful,” Luke startles at the sound of the Mandalorian’s voice, soft and steely at the same time, a mesmerizing contradiction, “Following someone like me is… unwise.”

Kriff, his voice.

Raspy through the modulator, soft, almost musical. It sends a clear message across: “I do not need to be loud to be feared”.

Luke takes a deep breath. He needs to put on his teacher persona, he needs to be the kind and whimsical that his students believe he is, not some bumbling fool whose brain stops functioning at somebody’s voice.

“I mean you no harm,” he projects his voice as best he can in the busy dock, “I ask only for five minutes of your time.”

The Mandalorian’s silence is deafening, until finally:

“Jedi.”

Luke flips down his hood and stands up from behind the container, meeting the Mandalorian’s expressionless visor with false bravado.

The Mandalorian’s body has gone rigid, tension holding together a mess of fear so intense it almost blindsides him.

“Five minutes,” Luke repeats, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, “That’s all I ask.”

The Mandalorian is silent, as though he’s holding his breath. Luke gets tunnel vision for a minute—nothing else in the dock exists, none of the other ships and people shouting, just him and the father of one of his students.

The Mandalorian jerks his helmet towards his ship, and Luke hastily follows, trying to make himself look as nonthreatening as possible.

When the ramp seals shut with a loud clank, the Mandalorian whirls around, taking a step menacingly towards Luke. Then, suddenly, as though his thoughts have been interrupted, he stops in his tracks, clenching his gloved hand into a fist.

“Start talking,” he says—no, demands. It sends a shiver of fear down Luke’s spine, but… it doesn’t feel like the fear he’s used to.

Luke scrambles to find the right words that won’t end in a fight (and, as a lower priority, ones that won’t make him sound like an idiot). “Grogu is fine,” he hurries to say, “He’s safe.”

The Mandalorian does not move, and his body language doesn’t change at all, but Luke can practically hear the relief that floods his features.

Another emotion flows through the relief in parallel, something akin to sadness, and then it immediately hardens into suspicion. Luke takes a deep breath and soldiers on, desperate to get all his words out regardless of the consequences.

“The old ways of the Jedi reject attachments,” he rushes out, “They believed attachments and possessions influenced the dark side of the Force, but…”

The Mandalorian’s visor looks like it’s staring through Luke’s soul, ripping him apart in search of answers.

“But?”

Luke runs a hand through his hair. “I disagree with them. Without relationships, without attachments, without love, we lose everything that makes us who we are. We become stagnant, still, and we focus so much on what sets us apart that we forget what makes us human.”

Nervously, he reaches out through the Force to get a read on what the Mandalorian is feeling, but then he quickly pulls away. It feels wrong—invasive when he’s trying to gain his trust.

“I forgot to tell you this on the ship, and I’m sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for letting you think you lost your son.”

The Mandalorian’s fist unclenches. “I can… see him again?”

He sounds like he never expected it, like he gave his family away to a stranger all for the sake of, what, his son? Luke wants to provide him with some modicum of comfort, but he expects getting a hug from a random Jedi wouldn’t be a good comfort.

“You can see him every day, if that’s what you want,” Luke assures him.

Is that too extreme? Should he have said it less intensely?

Does the Mandalorian think he’s lying?

He’s not, he almost never lies, but some guy who’s only seen him once wouldn’t know that.

“I can take you to him right now,” Luke offers, searching the visor for any sort of emotion that can help navigate these beskar-filled waters, “He misses you terribly.”

When the Mandalorian still doesn’t respond, like some sort of malfunctioning droid whose power cell has been snatched by Jawas, Luke realizes that he may have overstepped with the last sentence.

He’s really screwing this up, isn’t he? So much for the diplomatic future he’ll never have. “I’m sorry if I overstepped, but—”

“Take me to him.”

Luke stumbles over his next words. “W—what?”

The Mandalorian’s voice is tight but steady as he tilts his helmet down just a fraction, as though he is looking down at Luke both literally and figuratively.

“Take me to the kid,” my kid goes unsaid, but it’s telling enough in his voice, which suddenly goes from desperate to wary and suspicious, “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

“A trick?” Luke rears back, scandalized.

The Mandalorian crosses his arms silently, which is a bit of a feat considering the heavy armor covering them. “The Jedi are ancient enemies of Mandalorians,” he says, as though it explains anything.

Luke has to physically exhale to get rid of his frustration, and even then, it barely works. Why won’t the Mandalorian trust him? He gave him his son, why doesn’t he trust him enough to reunite them?

“It would be easy,” the Mandalorian muses, “Luring me out into space, killing me… you could frame it as an accident. Anything could have happened.”

Luke nearly chokes on the metallic oxygen of the ship. “Why would—”

“You are powerful,” he forms the statement as though it is absolute, “I saw the way you fought those battle droids. You could have my neck snapped at a moment’s notice if you so much as thought about it.”

Frustration and horror brew up an ominous storm in Luke’s gut. He’s gone soft from the years he spent as a teacher—emotions like this are hard to come by when his biggest troubles are mischievous kids and food disappearing from the pantry.

“I just want to bring you to Grogu,” Luke bites out irritably.

The Mandalorian scoffs. “Out of the goodness of your heart?” he asks dryly.

“Yes,” Luke stresses. He feels like he’s been talking in circles for days at this point, but he can’t stop now, not when he finally has time to speak. “If you can trust me with your son for six months, I think you can trust me to take you to him. Everything I said earlier is true, I promise.”

“Promises mean nothing to me,” the Mandalorian replies.

Luke feels the sudden urge to strangle this man, which concerning, because he hasn’t felt this urge since the last time he saw Han.

“I’m asking you to see your son again! Because he misses you! Every day, he reaches out to touch the helmet of someone who isn’t there because he’s too scared of something good happening to him!”

The outburst is not befitting of a Jedi warrior, and Luke can practically feel Yoda’s Force ghost beating him over the head with a stick. Whatever. Which one of them is alive, again? Oh, yeah, that’s right, the “young and stupid, he is” one.

Rather than actually taking two seconds to listen to rationality, the Mandalorian decides that now would be a fantastic time to pull out his blaster and turn it towards Luke’s skull.

“You said it yourself, Mando,” Luke bites out the nickname like a taunt, “I’m powerful. Do you really want to see what happens when you shoot that thing? I’m trying to reunite a child with his father, and you’re acting like I’m trying to kill you.”

As soon as the words leave Luke’s mouth, they leave a bitter aftertaste. Why is he getting so riled up over this? He’s dealt with worse people with even worse tempers who are even more distrustful, and yet for some reason, the idea of this man not believing him makes him angrier than he’s been in years.

“I don’t trust a—”

“You know what? Fine,” Luke snaps, gnashing his teeth in frustration, “I’ll leave you the coordinates, and once you stop pretending like everyone’s out to get you, you can grow the guts to be a decent father and see your son again.”

“Get out of my ship.” The Mandalorian’s voice holds no room for argument, cold and unfeeling, ridding Luke of any progress he thought he was making.

Luke has never regretted something more in his life than right now. Kriff, why did he say that? What is wrong with him? What happened to the super calm Jedi that everyone talks about when they commemorate the destruction of the death star?

He’s not entirely sure how to open the ramp on the ship, but he doesn’t really care, too blinded by anger to care. Luke throws up his hands frustratedly, letting his rage rush out of him in a quick breath.

It helps him feel marginally better, clearer in both mind and soul. He lets himself lean back into the Force, if only for a moment, and he focuses on what’s happening outside the ship.

A landing dock, shipping containers, fifty people surrounding this ship. And then, even further, thousands upon thousands of civilians going about their daily tasks, soaking in the—

Wait.

What?

“Do I need to repeat myself, Jedi? Get out.”

Luke’s veins turn to ice, and he can feel his face turn a few shades paler. How is this possible? This can’t be possible. He distinctly remembers Moff Gideon being captured, so surely the stormtroopers outside the ship can’t be from him.

Right?

They have to just be stragglers, but they can’t be, their armor is too clean and polished, and he feels sick to his stomach because the Imperials are still out there, more than just the occasional whisper of allegiance to a destroyed empire.

“We’re surrounded.”

Something in the Mandalorian’s demeanor instantly changes, his blaster tucked close to his chest instead of pointed at Luke. His stance goes from rigid to battle-ready, which is somehow looser. “How many?” he asks.

“Too many,” Luke whispers.

“How many?” The Mandalorian hisses.

“Fifty.”

The Mandalorian rolls his neck and slams a button on the side of the ship, presumably to open the ramp.

“Mando, wait—”

Right as the door opens, something clatters inside the ship, and Luke only has a split second to realize oh, kriff, that’s not a regular grenade, before everything goes white, and then black.

Luke wakes up feeling cold.

It’s not the same cold as he was on Hoth, though. That was freezing, ice sticking his eyelashes together and making every movement feel like a marathon.

This is the sort of cold that can only be brought by darkness, by malicious forces brought only to wreak havoc and sow the seeds of chaos.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

Luke’s blood boils at the sound of Moff Gideon’s voice. When he finally gathers the strength to open his eyes, he makes it a point to send him the most withering glare he can possibly muster.

As per usual, Gideon is unperturbed by the action, utterly aloof in every move he makes.

Luke tries to stand up but finds his hands are bound by cuffs that hum menacingly. The warning of the hum is clear as day: try to break out, and it will feel a thousand times worse than a simple shock.

“What do you want?” he slurs, head throbbing from whatever that grenade thing was earlier.

Gideon tilts his head patronizingly. Oh, it probably isn’t very Jedi-Master of Luke to want to slam that man’s face into his lightsaber, but he really can’t be bothered with that right now.

“You know, I’m not too sure of that myself,” the man admits, smug smile curling his lips, “But you can imagine my surprise when I heard rumors of a Mandalorian and a Jedi in a landing dock on Coruscant.”

Gideon’s face leans in close to Luke, and he can smell the stink of evil wafting from his aging skin. “How fortunate for me, that it just so happened to be the Mandalorian and the Jedi who caused me such strife not too many months ago!”

Luke glances to his left and sees the Mandalorian, cuffed the same way as he is, slumped on the ground in an unconscious heap. Gideon reaches for his belt and snatches the darksaber from his belt, switching on the blade and sighing dreamily at the menacing buzz it makes.

“That blade doesn’t belong in your hands,” Luke growls, taking Gideon’s distractedness as a means to look around the room.

It’s long and narrow, with a single stone bench stretching from one end to the other. Only one door is present, which is smart, and it’s sealed shut at the moment.

“Oh, but it does,” Gideon replies smoothly, clicking it shut and snapping it to his belt, “Rest assured, the saber is right where it belongs.”

Wake up, Luke thinks, certain that he can’t do anything about this on his own, but the Mandalorian stays unconscious.

“If you play your cards right, Skywalker, I’ll let you out of this situation unharmed,” Gideon informs him, and the back of Luke’s neck prickles in both suspicion and discomfort.

“Tell me where the child is, and I’ll let you leave. I’ll even give you a ship to take you wherever you want to go.”

“I’d rather die,” Luke spits back.

Gideon hums in acknowledgement, raising his eyebrows like he knew this was going to happen from the start. Oh, he hates that stupid, smug little—

The Mandalorian stirs, and both Luke and Gideon’s gazes snap to him.

Immediately, he leaps into the air, shoving his armored body into Gideon with all the force he can muster, effectively slamming the imperial against the wall with a sickening smack.

“Guards!” Gideon bellows, and the room floods with the black and white bodies of over a dozen stormtroopers.

Try as he might—and try he does—the Mandalorian is not equipped to fight them all, what with his hands being cuffed and his body lacking any of the weapons he normally has. Still, he manages to effectively knock out at least six of them before he’s overwhelmed, shoved onto the ground by a particularly strong one.

Gideon lifts himself from the wall, wiping a stream of blood from his nose. The smile is gone from his face, and a little tendril of satisfaction unfurls in Luke’s stomach. “Well, if it isn’t the big bad Mandalorian,” he drawls maliciously, “No friends here to help you anymore, are there?”

With a sickening smile, Gideon crouches down to look at the Mandalorian’s helmet. “Don’t worry, I’m a patient man. You’ll tell me where the child is, and this time, I won’t give you the option of escape.”

“I will never—”

“Take off his armor.”

The stormtrooper holding him down rips off one of the leg pieces, and when the Mandalorian yanks at his cuffs to attack him, they send an electric shock so intense down his spine that his whole body sparks with blue and white lightning, leaving him loose on the floor, unable to move a muscle.

“Don’t,” he chokes out, helpless to his chestplate and pauldrons being torn away from him.

From the way he grunts at the removal, it sounds like the stormtroopers are peeling off his skin. Luke feels physically sick at the sight, of everything that makes him Mandalorian being forcibly stripped from his body while all he can do is watch.

Within a minute, all that remains is helmet.

“Not so strong without all that armor, are you?” Gideon mocks him relentlessly, staring at the simple black turtleneck and pants with a nasty smile. “When I take off this helmet, what’s even making you a Mandalorian anymore?”

“Don’t—” the Mandalorian tries to repeat his plea from before, but Gideon already has two hands placed on his helmet.

Everything about this is wrong—the tremor in the Mandalorian’s voice, which was so confident just hours ago, the way he pleads in a way that is so unlike his people it hurts, beaten and torn down until all he has left are his words.

“Oh, but I will,” Gideon snarls.

Luke looks away, squeezing his eyes shut, but he’ll never be able to purge the modulated cry that is ripped into silence as his helmet snaps off with a mechanical hiss.

“And just like that,” Gideon says, his voice so much more menacing now that Luke can’t see him, “You’re a Mandalorian no longer. At least, not where you’re from, anyway.”

The Mandalorian is silent.

Out of principle, Luke remains silent, too, green and purple spots appearing behind his eyes from how hard he’s squeezing them shut.

Then, just as Gideon is exiting the cell, stormtroopers following suit, the Mandalorian speaks up, voice holding a thousand more emotions than the helmet could ever produce:

“If you lay one hand on the child, there will be no place in the galaxy you will be able to hide from me.”

Luke can almost hear Gideon’s smile.

“We’ll see about that.”

The door seals shut with a clang, and Luke has never felt colder.

Chapter Text

The silence eats away at Luke like Grogu with the frogs.

It’s been a few hours since the Mandalorian’s helmet got removed, and Luke hasn’t opened his eyes once, too afraid of what he might see.

All he hears is quiet, strangled breathing, as though he doesn’t know how to inhale properly outside of the helmet.

How can he try and form an escape plan without talking to the Mandalorian? And, subsequently, looking him in the eyes without his helmet?

Luke’s thoughts—well, a more realistic term would be brooding—are quickly interrupted by the door sliding open, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to immediately look. As stupid as Luke can be sometimes, he will not deplete the Mandalorian’s trust in him any further than it already has been.

Heavy and confident boots stroll toward the Mandalorian with all the arrogance of a man who has gotten exactly what he wants and is still not satisfied.

“I assume you’re not too keen on giving us any information on the child’s whereabouts now, Skywalker?” Gideon asks, patient and polite and so, so smug.

Luke glares in Gideon’s general direction, his presence radiating such cockiness that it almost hurts to look at for too long. “Go choke on blurgg shit,” he snaps.

Gideon barks out an insincere laugh. “Vulgar for a Jedi Master, aren’t you? No matter. We’ll be dealing with you later.”

Luke is fairly certain that’s code for we have no idea how to get rid of you without dying, and he can’t help the inkling of satisfaction that flares in his chest at the fear he instills in others. Not very Jedi-like of him, he knows, but in situations like this, it’s necessary as a way to buy more time.

He’s in a bit of a pickle right now. The electric cuffs around his wrists can be rendered useless with merely a thought, but he isn’t sure how many stormtroopers are currently parked outside the doors. Sure, he can get the cuffs off, no problem, but he can’t fight an entire army.

Not without hurting anyone, at least.

“What’s wrong, Mando?” Gideon’s grating voice sends a disgusted shiver down Luke’s spine. “Realized you’re not so scary without your armor?”

A nasty snarl erupts from the Mandalorian’s location, and Luke hears him lunge at Gideon, only for a loud buzzing noise and the telltale smack of a kick causing him to collapse to the ground in a heap, heaving out shaky breaths.

“Still a spitfire, are we?”

Please don’t anger him, Luke thinks, beginning to go lightheaded from how tight he’s squeezing his eyes shut, you’ll only make it worse.

Thankfully, the Mandalorian doesn’t speak again, but it isn’t until a few minutes later that Luke realizes it’s because he’s gone.

A dark pit opens up in his stomach, something horrified and twisting opening up its gaping maw, threatening to swallow him whole. With hurried terror, Luke sifts through the ship and its thousands of passengers until he sighs in relief.

The Mandalorian is alive.

Whatever Gideon’s doing to him is nothing to scoff at, but Gideon isn’t Force-sensitive. He can’t dig through his mind and peek into the horrors he’s faced from the back of his mind, he can’t hurt him in any way except physically.

Not that Luke wishes harm upon the Mandalorian, but physical wounds are ones he can fix. Physical wounds are treatable. Unlike Grogu, Luke isn’t too good at Force healing, but he can fix the brunt of damage, so—

Oh, stars.

Grogu.

His students probably aren’t even worried right now, not when he hasn’t even been gone a full two days yet. He can almost see Grogu and Xel tormenting Han while Leia reads a book to Meeko and Faralda, all under the watchful eye of Garbor.

They all think he’s bringing back Grogu’s father, but instead he got them both captured like an idiot, and eventually Leia and Han will have to go back to Naboo and the only living thing that can protect these poor children from harm is kriffing Garbor.

Luke runs a hand through his hair and opens his eyes, squinting from the brightness even though the room is quite dim. It takes a minute to blink away the black spots in his vision, but it doesn’t take too long to adjust.

It only takes a moment of concentration for the cuffs to clatter on the ground uselessly, and Luke takes the time to explore his cell as much as possible.

It’s long and narrow, with a metal bench spanning the length of the room. Really, it’s more like a ledge, and Luke’s back already hurts just looking at it. It’s cold, too, with the chill of malicious intent seeping into his bones and sending a full body shiver up his spine.

Besides that, the room has a toilet on one end, and… nothing else. Designed for containment, Luke imagines, but clearly not long-term.

The thought of being here any longer than a day has Luke’s heart squeezing in on itself, so he takes a deep breath. He’ll form an escape plan while Gideon is beating up the Mandalorian, or whatever it is he does. Don’t tell him anything, Luke thinks with a pinched frown.

Who is he kidding—the Mandalorian is even less likely to spill the beans about something than he is, judging from how stubborn he was during their argument that got them into this mess in the first place.

Luke thinks back to his training, both self-taught and not, and remembers that, when he’s distracted, it can be easier to not see. He thinks fondly about the past, of wearing a blindfold and trusting only in the Force and the dull buzz of his lightsaber.

Oh, that’s it! A blindfold!

If he wears a blindfold, he’ll have to rely more on the Force and he won’t accidentally look at the Mandalorian’s uncovered face. He’ll kill two womp rats with one stone—what a genius idea!

Careful not to make too much noise, Luke rips off one of his sleeves on his robes and wraps the fabric around his eyes a few times. Total darkness fills his vision, and he sinks into the feeling.

It doesn’t matter what you see.

It’s what you feel.

He feels two thousand people aboard the ship, not nearly as big as the Death Star, but certainly not small, either. Twelve guards are stationed outside the cell doors, which annoys Luke to no end. Why would Gideon underestimate them like that?

A Jedi and a Mandalorian? Twelve stormtroopers guarding the cell? It’s a stab to his ego, even though there are undoubtedly hundreds of other stormtroopers lurking in the corners for when the others inevitably get downed.

To get to the shipping dock, they’ll have to travel three floors down, where there are a handful of TIE fighters to choose from.

Mando needs his armor, though, Luke thinks, chewing his lip in concentration, and I need my lightsaber. Where are they keeping them?

Luke is jerked out of his meditation by the doors sliding open, and something is thrown into the cell without a care in the world, landing on the ground next to Luke with a loud “oof”. Not something, then. Someone.

The Mandalorian.

When the doors shut once more, Luke turns towards the Mandalorian’s general direction. “The ships are three floors below, but if we—”

A low moan comes from the floor, and Luke furrows his brow behind the blindfold. When his hands stretch against the floor, his heart stutters for a moment.

The cold floor is warm and sticky on Luke’s fingers, a coppery scent causing his stomach to lurch with nothing in it.

Blood.

“Oh, kriff, are you alright?” Luke asks, wiping his hand on his robes. What a stupid question—obviously he’s not alright, he’s been physically abused and tortured for the past who-knows-how long?

How could Luke be so selfish? Not everyone can just slip into a healing trance to make themselves feel better, least of all someone with about as much Force-sensitivity as a cinder block.

“Grogu,” the Mandalorian rasps out weakly, words slurred together by a mouth full of blood.

“Grogu is safe,” Luke assures him firmly, “My sister’s watching over him—if she even catches so much as a whiff of trouble, he’ll be off the planet and with her faster than you can say ‘frog’.”

The Mandalorian heaves out a dry, rattling cough, and then groans loudly at the pain it causes him. “Can’t let them find him,” he whispers fervently, “Promise, promise, pro—”

“They won’t find him.”

Luke tries to make his words as sure and firm as possible, although Leia was always much better at that than him. “I can heal you,” he says, although it’s formed more as a question, “I’m not the best, but I can get rid of the worst of it.”

He reaches a hand out to touch the Mandalorian’s face, but his hand is weakly swatted away by a pair of cuffed hands.

“No,” Mando grits, sucking a breath through his teeth in agony.

“Please?” Luke asks softly, and when that doesn’t work, he hardens his mouth into a scowl. “I know you don’t trust me, but I gain nothing from this. We’re in this together, whether you like it or not, and we’re going to have to trust each other if you ever want to see Grogu again.”

He knows he’s grabbing at low-hanging fruit right now, textbook blackmail, but nothing else has worked so far. Kriff, if he had just listened, then they would’ve been back at the temple by now.

This time, when Luke reaches his hands, Mando flinches but doesn’t bat them away. Swallowing back a dry heave at the feeling of blood covering the warrior’s face, Luke cups his cheeks with both hands and takes a deep breath.

Luke isn’t entirely sure how Force-healing works, which might be why he isn’t very good at it. It’s easy to slip into a healing trance, to allow the body to shut down while it heals itself faster, but this isn’t his body. All he can feel is the warm blood trickling down the Mandalorian’s mouth and nose, his scratchy facial hair, and the warm skin underneath.

The thought of the Mandalorian not being able to grow a full, proper beard makes Luke stifle a laugh.

“S’warm,” Mando murmurs, hot breath fanning out around Luke.

Everything around and inside the Mandalorian is so warm, such a delightful contrast from the steel, cold beskar he shields himself with. Luke takes a deep breath and thinks about cuts and bruises mending themselves together, skin melding itself together and smoothing over any slashes, fusing broken bones back together without causing any pain, only warmth.

He wonders if he can get a good gauge on what the Mandalorian looks like if he allows his hands to move. What would his nose feel like? Are his eyelashes long? Does the facial hair go above his lip as well? Is this a reaction to the healing, or is the Mandalorian always this warm?

Woah.

Woah.

 Why are you thinking these thoughts? You kriffing idiot, Luke mentally chides himself. What is wrong with him? The Mandalorian loathes him and every other Jedi, only allowing himself to be healed so he can escape and see his son, and here Luke is, thinking weird thoughts about a guy he barely knows!

“Gideon,” Luke startles at Mando’s voice, raspy but much looser than it was, less agonized, “He called you ‘Skywalker’. What does your title mean?”

What an odd way to phrase a question. “It’s just my name, not a title,” he replies, “How are you feeling?”

The Mandalorian hesitates, almost like he’s weighing something in his head. “Skywalker,” he eventually whispers, “Kemir kebii’tra.”

Luke knows of the endangered language of Mando’a, blunt and guttural and blocky, but to hear it spoken with an expert tongue makes it feel less harsh and more… intense. Heartfelt, in a way, like instead of putting emotion into actions and words it’s spoken in tone.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” the Mandalorian answers his earlier question, “Your magic—”

“The Force,” Luke corrects him.

“Will it reverse itself if you move your hands?” Mando asks, an undercurrent of worry poorly concealed in his words.

Luke immediately flushes red and releases his hands. “No, it—sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were completely healed,” he stammers out excuse after excuse, fully aware that the Mandalorian can see how red his face is.

The silence grows tense once more, but at least the Mandalorian is no longer in excruciating pain. As strangely easy as the Mandalorian was to Force-heal, Luke is starting to feel the effects of healing so much at once, eyes slipping shut under the blindfold.

“Does the blindfold help your powers?”

“The Force,” Luke corrects him again, although not unkindly, “And… sometimes? Right now, I’m wearing it so I can’t accidentally see your face.”

Stars, he’s tired. Force-healing really takes it out of a person, and, especially when he hasn’t been able to successfully heal that much before, he feels his exhaustion tempting him closer and closer towards the empty chasm of sleep.

“I was told Jedi are cold,” the Mandalorian murmurs, knees almost touching Luke from how close they are, “They felt nothing—no anger, no rage.”

Luke hums noncommittally, swaying a bit from where he’s sat.

“On my ship, you were angry. You were mad at me, and you showed no fear in expressing it. You’re kind, and you’re giving, and you never ask for anything that benefits you. Do you know how rare people like you are?”

Luke isn’t absorbing every word, but they sound like compliments, so he just loosens his posture with a soft sigh. “Jedi?” he mumbles.

Yeah, he knows Force-sensitivity is rare, although maybe not as—

“No,” Mando interrupts his thoughts, voice just as soft as it always is, “Kind people. Those who give without expecting to receive.”

Without warning, Luke’s body sways back, but just before his head slams into metal, something soft and warm catches it. “Skywalker—”

“Luke.”

“Luke Skywalker,” the Mandalorian says his name like there is weight behind it, like it means something more than the rebellion’s poster boy or the doe-eyed Jedi who bumbles around without a clue in the world, “You cross the galaxy to rectify a mistake, blind yourself to respect my Creed, and give me your name without asking mine.”

Whatever caught Luke’s head is now absentmindedly running a thumb through his hair—it’s his hand, Luke realizes deliriously—on the back of his neck, so gently it feels more like a ghost than an actual thumb.

“I just want you to see your son,” he slurs, words becoming a struggle in his exhaustion.

“We will,” the Mandalorian tells him, something strangled in his voice, tight with something Luke can’t quite point out, “Sleep.”

“I just—”

“Sleep,” he repeats, and Luke briefly wonders if the Mandalorian is secretly Force-sensitive, because as soon as the raspy words slip out of his mouth, he’s sound asleep, whisked away by the gentle tides of a dreamless slumber.

Luke wakes up to his head resting on a pile, and no Mandalorian in sight. Well, not sight—he can’t see a thing—but the telltale presence of the conflicted man is missing.

Curious about the pile, Luke lifts his head and touches it, only to realize that his robe is missing, and he’s only in his undershirt. Huh, that’s weird… when did he take off his robe? In the middle of the night, maybe? Whenever it was, he mentally thanks himself for sparing the neck pain.

He wonders how the Mandalorian is faring with the interrogation… he highly doubts he’ll give away any information on Grogu, but the thought of someone like him, someone who just wants to get by, be physical tortured and abused every day just because he wants to protect his son?

It makes his blood boil, even with all the lessons in patience Yoda taught him.

If they can figure out how to work together, Luke is certain they’ll be able to escape this place in no time. As smart as Moff Gideon may be, he’s no match for a Jedi and a Mandalorian, especially if they’re working together.

When the doors slide open again, Luke expects to see a battered and bruised Mandalorian falling onto the ground. Instead, it’s just a stormtrooper, who tosses a dry lump into Luke’s lap. He brings it to his nose and takes a sniff—dry bread, barely enough for one person.

Then, the stormtrooper gasps. “Your c—”

Luke waves his hand, voice absolute truth. “I am wearing the cuffs,” he says.

The stormtrooper’s mind gives way like a crumbling wall. “You are wearing the cuffs,” he confirms, and then walks out the door without giving it another thought.

Luke splits the bread in half and eats the smaller portion. They should use this stuff for building houses, it’s dry as wood and about as tasty, too. Still, it’s something to do while Gideon and his crew try and cook up a way to get rid of him without dying miserably.

This time, when the Mandalorian is shoved through the doors, Luke stands up hurriedly and catches him in his arms to prevent any further bruising.

There isn’t any blood on his face when Luke gingerly runs a hand across it, but the Mandalorian is weak nonetheless, slumped against his body so heavily that Luke has to sit down in order to hold his weight.

“What happened?” he asks, gently pressing fleeting touches around his shoulders and neck. No blood, no open wounds… what did Gideon do?

The Mandalorian sighs, breaths coming out in quick, shallow stutters. He doesn’t say a word, but he gently puts Luke’s hands on his face.

“I can’t heal you if I don’t know what’s hurt,” Luke tells him softly.

The Mandalorian says nothing, but Luke hears him raise his cuffs in the air and it sends a chill down his spine. Electrocution.

He doesn’t have to heal anything, not when the force of the shocks from the cuffs aren’t enough to severely injure a person, but he lets his hands gather the warmth of the Force and spread throughout the Mandalorian, soothing his racing heart and cleansing his nerves of the shocks dancing through his body.

The Mandalorian’s breathing starts to slow. “Your cuffs are gone,” he realizes, voice hoarse from either yelling or the electricity, he can’t tell.

Luke lifts a hand from Mando’s face and the cuffs clatter to the ground uselessly. “So are yours,” he replies, “Are you hungry?”

Once he’s certain the Mandalorian is healed, Luke lets go of his face and tosses him the remaining bread from earlier. He’s tired, but not as exhausted as last time, since the Mandalorian wasn’t nearly as injured this time around.

“The ships are three floors below us,” Luke whispers, barely audible, just loud enough for the Mandalorian to hear but not loud enough for any cameras to pick up, “If we can find where your armor is, we can be out of here by tomorrow.”

“You would do better escaping on your own.”

Luke grits his teeth and lays down on his makeshift pillow. “I’m not leaving without you,” he swears, hoping that his vehemency comes off strong enough for the Mandalorian to understand.

“Are all Jedi this selfless?” The Mandalorian asks.

“The few I’ve met are,” Luke replies conversationally, “We’ll escape tomorrow.”

The Mandalorian hums, laying down next to Luke and putting a decent bit of space between them—close enough to whisper, but not close enough to reach out and touch.

Not that Luke would want to reach out and touch him, that’s ridiculous. It’s just… something he noticed, that’s all.

“Do you have a plan?” The Mandalorian’s voice isn’t accusatory, not like it was not too long ago. It’s just a question, and Luke’s heart swells with pride.

“If I ask you to trust me, will you?” he counters lightly.

Shockingly enough, the Mandalorian doesn’t immediately retort. “Yes,” he says, voice barely audible and softer than any blanket Luke has slept under,

“I trust you.”

Chapter Text

“We escape tomorrow”, in Luke’s genius mind, was never spoken, because Past Luke was a moron who didn’t understand that escapes took time and patience.

Almost as though he could sense the Jedi’s schemes brewing, Moff Gideon and his goons have been nothing short of brutal on the Mandalorian, beating him senseless until he’s unable to form words before throwing the bruised and bloodied meatbag of a man back into the cell for Luke to put back together, hands on his face and whispering kind reassurances.

Just last night, Luke was still exhausted from the previous round of healing when the Mandalorian was thrown into the room in an unconscious heap. It took everything he had in him not to immediately tackle the stormtrooper and face the entire ship on his own, instead leaning Mando’s sagging body on his side so he could heal him better.

In retrospect, he probably should have just laid him on the floor to heal him, because the result from his intense healing is so hazy he only remembers waking up, not falling asleep to his hands still stitching together Mando’s body.

Luke is surrounded by warmth when he wakes up. It’s not oppressive, no, but encompassing, so much better than the cold floor he’s woken up on so many times before.

It’s been four days.

Maybe.

Time is hard to tell. He thinks it’s been four days, because they’ve taken the Mandalorian twice more. He’s been more trusting with Luke, which is good—great, even—but he’s also been quieter. Objectively, quiet doesn’t necessarily mean bad, but…

Luke likes hearing him talk.

Admittedly, it’s probably just the exhaustion of all this physical torture. Luke has no idea what they’re putting the Mandalorian through, but, judging from the amount of Force-healing he’s had to do, he thinks it warrants a bit of exhaustion on the man’s part.

It’s warm.

Luke sighs into the warmth, allowing it to wriggle closer to him. It feels nice, like a sensory deprivation tank giving him a big hug. He buries his face into a clothed shoulder, breathing in the smell of metal and something unidentifiable, almost like—

Like a person.

It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time for Luke to realize that he is not, in fact, being cradled by an impossibly warm pillow—no, he’s being spooned by the Mandalorian.

“Mando,” Luke whispers, voice strangled and hoarse from sleep.

The Mandalorian responds by clutching Luke tighter, hot breath fanning out over the side of Luke’s neck and making it tingle delightfully.

Kriff, Luke really needs to get himself together. He cannot be developing romantic-and-maybe-something-else feelings for his fellow captive! It’s an attraction of circumstance! A weird, twisted version of Stockholm syndrome where instead of getting attracted to the captor, it’s his fellow victim!

Every rational thought flies out the window when the Mandalorian murmurs something in his sleep, the cadence and brash mumble most likely something in Mando’a.

Mando breathes the words into Luke’s skin, molding his body around him subconsciously like a human shield.

Never, not in a million, trillion years did Luke ever think he would be in a situation remotely similar to this. As good as it feels to be wrapped in the Mandalorian’s tight but soft embrace, it feels almost like Luke is taking advantage of it by allowing this.

The Mandalorian has just started to trust him—clearly, he just needs something to hold, and the closest thing is Luke. As ridiculously un-Mandalorian as that may sound, it’s the only logical reason Luke can think of besides “maybe he shares a similar attraction”, which is utterly preposterous, considering that Luke has been keeping his son from him for over six months.

Amidst his internal panic, Luke doesn’t realize the Mandalorian is also awake until the warmth is suddenly gone, ripped away from him like the sun slipping from his fingers. Disoriented, it takes him a moment to sit up properly, and when he does, he registers the Mandalorian sitting further from him than he has in a while.

“Forgive me,” the Mandalorian says, mortified beyond belief, “I must have gotten cold in my sleep.”

The heat emitted from his body earlier begs to differ, but Luke wisely decides to keep his mouth shut lest he end up battling the one person who he needs to trust him.

“It’s okay,” Luke replies quickly, because he has much better things to focus on right now than how comfortable it was to be surrounded by a protective—

Kriff, pull yourself together, Luke! You’re a Jedi, act like one!

Clearing his throat, Luke stands up and begins pacing the cell, aware of but unable to see the Mandalorian’s eyes tracking his every movement curiously. “Alright, Mando—”

“Din.”

“If we—gwuh?”

“My name is Din,” the Mandalorian adds, as if Luke thought he was just spouting random words for fun, “You may use it if you wish.”

Luke gawks stupidly in his general direction. He’s been so used to calling him “the Mandalorian” and “Mando” in his head that he hadn’t even thought about him having an actual name.

Din.

Din.

Short and simple, two things he most certainly is not, and yet it somehow fits the faceless man perfectly. Din, Din, Din, Luke’s mind repeats like a broken record as he struggles to form another sentence, too hung up with giddiness over the fact that the Mandalorian—Din—trusts him enough to give him his name.

“Right. Yeah. Din. Cool! Um, so, the, uh…” Luke is at a loss for words, too busy attempting to wrangle the wasps’ nest of “Din” floating through his brain to keep going.

Thankfully, Din is a beskar-clad angel sent from above, and he gently guides him in the right direction with a simple “Escape plan?”

“Yes! The plan!”

Luke inhales sharply, balling up his scattered thoughts and allowing them to drip out of his mind, collecting them for later like rainwater. “If your armor were to be returned to you, how many stormtroopers could you take down?” he asks.

Din doesn’t hesitate. “All of them.”

The unwavering, steely confidence sends a chill down Luke’s spine. As good a warrior as Din might be, he doesn’t know if he’s able to do that much. “Mando—”

“Din,” he corrects him.

Luke opens his mouth to apologize, but Din pushes on, not done speaking. “I placed my trust in you, did I not?” he asks, holding no room for argument. His voice is hard, less vulnerable than it was yesterday but not necessarily mean. “Should you not do the same for me?”

“I know, but—”

“You are a Jedi,” Din continues, “Powerful. Loathed by some, loved by others. You both uphold and destroy my expectations, Skywalker.”

For the first time since he put it on, Luke has the urge to take off his blindfold, if only to see Din’s face, because his voice is difficult to decipher, too similar to how it sounded with the helmet on.

“Tell me, Luke Skywalker, what am I?”

Unfathomably attractive, Luke wisely decides not to say. “Mandalorian,” he replies instead, lips parting in surprise when Din walks closer to him, footsteps deafening in the silent room.

“That’s right,” Din agrees, and Luke feels a calloused hand place itself so gently on his cheek that it barely feels there at all, “I am a Mandalorian. A warrior. I will let my body be torn to shreds if it means destroying my enemies as well.”

Din’s hand starts to lift away, but, either in some cosmic need or just a subconscious decision, Luke’s hand reaches out and holds it there.

Silence clouds the emptiness surrounding Luke, uncertainty threatening to stagger his battle-ready mind and body.

“I trust you,” Din whispers, a quiet confession to nobody except the blindfolded Jedi and the air circulating the room, his thumb inching closer and closer to Luke’s lips like he’s been possessed, “Will you trust me?”

“Yes,” Luke croaks hoarsely.

Is it getting warm in the cell? Why is it so hot all of a sudden? Is this a new torture technique from Moff Gideon? Why is Din’s thumb lingering right next to his lips? Why is Luke’s heart beating so fast right now?

If Luke were an idiot, he’d think Din was about to do something really stupid, like kiss him, except that’s not who Din is, and he wouldn’t kiss someone he’s only known for a week, and oh kriff why is he still looking at me what does his face look like I think I want to kiss him—

Luke’s panicked thoughts are saved for another day when the cell door slides open, and Din startles away, as though he himself is unsure of why he just did that.

The stormtroopers make a move to grab Din, but this time, Luke is ready. He wants to get out of this stupid cell, he wants to see his students and Leia and Han again, he wants to meditate with Garbor roaring in the distance, he wants…

He kind of wants to kiss Din, but that wish is going in the “Things Luke Will Never, Ever, Ever Tell Anyone, Not Even Leia When She’s Using Her Scary Eyes” folder of his mind. Is he attracted to mysterious guys who don’t give him their name until he heals them and accidentally cuddles with them?

Luke steps in front of Din, attempting to exude the cool confidence of the Jedi that he most certainly is not. He feels the Mandalorian reach out to pull him away, but Luke just turns his head and silently mouths the magic word in the hopes that Din will understand.

Trust.

Din pulls his hand away, albeit hesitantly, and the stormtroopers inch closer to Luke, intimidated but intent on following orders. “Move aside, Jedi,” one of them demands.

Luke waves his hand in front of the stormtroopers’ helmets, feeling the walls behind their minds crumble and give way to the command of a stranger. “You will retrieve the Mandalorian’s armor and our weapons,” he instructs, “You will return them to us as soon as possible.”

Without another word, the two stormtroopers turn tail and exit the room. After another wave of Luke’s hands, the cuffs on Din’s wrists clatter uselessly to the ground, but the quiet Mandalorian doesn’t move, his gaze burning a hole into the back of his blindfold.

Adrenaline begins creeping up Luke’s spine, making his fingers twitch and shake in anticipation. “You won’t have much time to put on the armor,” he admits apologetically, “The ships are three floors below us—we just have to get there, steal a ship, and escape. Easy, right?”

Luke waits for an answer, but Din is silent.

“Din?” he prompts, turning his head to where he assumes the Mandalorian is staring at him from.

“What did you just do?” Din asks, not accusatory, but definitely not kind, either.

Luke just barely bites back a groan of frustration. Do they seriously have time for this right now? Can’t the Force explanation stuff come later, when they’re safely on a ship and flying back to Grogu and the others?

“The minds of the weak are susceptible to suggestion,” Luke answers vaguely, “Can we discuss this later?”

“Skywalker—”

“I’ve never done that to you, and I never will,” Luke immediately tells him, voice void of any jokes or lies, “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to.”

Din doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree, either, which is progress from how he would have reacted a couple days ago.

“Trust?” Luke offers weakly, throwing out a lifeline to hold together this fragile… whatever they’ve got going on between them. Not quite friendship, not quite enemies. Something else, something new, born from the ashes of selflessness and vulnerability.

“This is The Way,” Din replies, just as the two stormtroopers return with a large box of items, closing the door behind them once they leave.

Din’s hands bury into the box hungrily, like a man starved, and Luke can hear him grasping at the beskar and cloth like he never expected to feel it again. Within five minutes, he’s clipping the final blaster onto his belt, and the nervous energy that’s been radiating from him nonstop is suddenly dulled, replaced with the warmth of familiarity.

Luke reaches into the box to grab his belt and lightsaber, clipping them both on with a small smile. As confident as he is in his abilities with the Force, there is something so comforting about his lightsaber attached to him, an extension of everything he is and can be.

“Are you ready?” Luke asks, fingers itching to fight, ready to be rid of this anticipation and get back to the ones he loves most.

“Almost,” Din says, and Luke feels his hands, now gloved, slowly lift the blindfold off his face.

Bright lights fill up every part of his vision, and he squints for at least a minute before his eyes readjust to the world around him again. Din stands proudly in all his armored glory, just like the last time Luke got a good look at him.

This time, however, he isn’t on the ground. He’s cool, confident, and willing to fight. Just like Luke. “Stick together?” he asks, and Din nods his head, the helmet bobbing up and down in agreement.

 Luke takes his lightsaber and turns it on, relishing in the low hum of the green blade, allowing it to become one with his body and spirit, channeling his panicked, definitely-not-just-friendly thoughts from earlier into something useful.

Something deadly.

Within seconds, the door is open, burned metal dripping from the parts that have not been cut into a circle. As soon as the door slams into the floor, every stormtrooper in the hallway turns to face Din and Luke.

No, they are not Din and Luke right now.

They are a Mandalorian and a Jedi, joined together by circumstance and perhaps something else, and they will get to their goal by whatever means necessary.

Luke allows his saber to do the fighting for him, leaning into the Force and moving however his gut guides him, ducking and weaving around Din’s blaster fire like a snake in the water, two instruments woven together into one melody.

Every call from Din’s blaster is met with a responding arc of Luke’s blade, each movement more natural than the last as Luke allows the Force to guide his every move, molding himself into the perfect complementary weapon alongside his partner.

Din’s movements are methodical, a demonstration of years and years of hard work and practice, hard-earned skill and dedication bleeding from his blaster fire and hard punches. Whenever Din slams a stormtrooper into the wall, Luke is right behind him, lightsaber slicing through them before they can even get a hand on their horribly aimed blasters.

Luke doesn’t even have to think after a while, attuned to the paradox of Din’s fighting style—brutish, yet graceful at the same time, a beautifully deadly combination of strength and strategy fusing together into a whirlwind of metal and blaster fire, cape flowing and fluttering yet never getting tangled, showcasing the nature of who he truly is—a warrior.

By the time they get to the loading bay, Luke feels like he’s floating and falling at the same time, adrenaline replacing any other emotion he might be feeling at the moment. In between slices and stabs, jumping over and sliding under Din’s endless movement, Luke spots a ship towards the front.

It’s small, but not tiny, enough to comfortably fit two people, and Luke doesn’t even have to speak before Din begins heading in its direction, as though he can read his thoughts and actions while simultaneously slaughtering dozens upon dozens of stormtroopers in the deadly dance he’s learned since he was a child.

Their beautiful dance is only interrupted by the bellow of Moff Gideon, the man in charge, the only thing standing in the way of these two foes turned friends and their families.

“Stop!”

The stormtrooper in Din’s grasp crumples to the ground lifelessly, but the two of them pause in their fighting.

“You can’t win this fight!” Gideon cries out from nearby, somehow managing to sound smug despite the death of at least a hundred of his troopers.

Luke scoffs and twirls his lightsaber in his hands, entranced by the way the green of his saber reflects off the impeccably polished beskar of Din’s armor, even after so many days of disuse.

“Says who?” he taunts, tongue sharp and dripping with the adrenaline that rockets through his body.

Gideon isn’t one to take the high ground, it seems. “Says my army,” he hisses, now only a few feet away from Din and Luke.

Behind Moff Gideon, the loading bay floods with stormtroopers, further than the eye can see, an ocean of white and black, a sea of people ready to fire their guns at a moment’s notice. Ten stormtroopers pose no threat, twenty can’t even make them break a sweat.

An entire army, though?

“I must admit, you fight well together,” Gideon says, as though it pains him to grit the words out, “However, your feeble escape plan ends here.”

As Gideon drones on and on about how pathetic they are or whatever, Luke’s eyes flit to the ship, now within arm’s reach, and he casts his gaze to the ground, lowering his voice to something only Din can hear.

“When I say go, I need you to get in the ship and get it ready for hyperspace,” he whispers, clipping his lightsaber to his belt.

Din doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, but Luke can feel the doubt rippling off him in waves. Trust, he thinks, taking a deep breath, it goes both ways. If he trusts me, I can trust him, too.

“Your puny lives have—”

“Go!”

Luke’s roar rudely cuts off Gideon’s monologue, and Din wastes no time climbing into the ship, presumably flipping all the buttons and switches he needs to.

The army of stormtroopers don’t wait for a command, they immediately start firing, blasts of plasma whizzing past Luke’s head and body as he raises a hand, letting his eyes slip shut as he makes way for the Force to go through him, to become him, to let it move how he wishes.

It’s not about the size of what he wants to move, or how many. If he believes it to happen, if he truly thinks it can happen, then it will happen.

When Luke opens his eyes, he resists the urge to sigh in relief at the terrifying sight of hundreds of stormtroopers floating ten feet in the air, screaming and scrambling for purchase on nothing in particular.

A few of the smarter ones are still firing at Luke as he continues to hold one hand out, one of the lucky shots piercing him right through his side as he leaps into the ship, watching in both fascination and terror as the stormtroopers all fall the ground, disoriented for only a moment.

“How long until hyperspace?” he asks, panting from all the energy he’s wasted in such a short amount of time.

Din wastes no time in answering. “Fifteen seconds, but the door isn’t—”

In one last burst of energy, adrenaline and fear and determination fusing together into an ugly ball in his stomach that he throws out into the Force, Luke throws both of his hands out, and the enormous doors to space shriek and squeal as the metal bends to his will.

“Ten seconds to hyperspace,” Din informs him, somehow not panting with exhaustion like Luke currently is, sounding cool and collected, like this is just a normal day for him.

Or maybe he’s just pretending, Luke thinks, frazzled and disoriented from the amount of energy he’s putting into holding these stupid doors open.

“Hurry up!” he shouts, watching as the stormtroopers pick themselves up off the ground and shoot at the ship, little plink and clink noises erupting all around his ears.

“Five seconds to hyperspace,” Din says, pulling down a lever in the pilot’s seat, “Three, two, one…”

White noise explodes both in and out of Luke, the sudden jolt in G-force sending him colliding painfully into one of the walls as the stars blur together into a smorgasbord of white and blue and green and every other color he can possibly think of outside.

It’s only when the ship steadies itself in hyperspace that Luke untenses his body, slumping onto the floor in exhaustion, sweat dripping from his body as he heaves out uneven breaths, never quite inhaling enough air to properly wheeze out.

His body is too hot, but the floor is too cold, and Luke finds himself being racked with shivers, body and mind unable to process the past who knows how long as he struggles to grasp onto a coherent thought.

“Once we get a far enough distance from them, I’ll need you to put in the coordinates for your school,” Din instructs from the pilot’s seat, standing up and striding over to where Luke is pathetically hunched over on the ground, “I do—Skywalker?”

In a flash, Din is crouched over Luke, gloves pushing back his sweat-slicked hair in search of… something. What is he looking for?

“Are you hurt?” he asks, hands wandering above Luke’s body but not quite confident enough to examine him without permission.

It takes way too much effort, but Luke eventually shrugs off his robe, now only in his undershirt and pants, belt discarded on the ground in the process. He moves to lift up his undershirt, but his hands are shaking too much to properly move it.

He can clearly see the blood soaking his left side, permanently staining his shirt and sticking to his body. “Just a scratch,” he jokes weakly, offering a smile up at Din that really looks more like a grimace.

Much to his surprise, a metallic huff comes from Din’s helmet, and he breaks out into a brilliant, goofy smile at the sound. Did the Mandalorian just laugh?

It could barely even qualify as a chuckle, much less a laugh, but Luke will take what he can get, thank you very much.

“May I?” Din asks, gloves hovering just over the hem of Luke’s undershirt.

Luke is struck with the incredibly inappropriate thought of Din lifting it up for other reasons, and he blames the sudden red flush covering his body on the nonexistent heat of the ship. “Yeah, go for it,” he stammers out.

With only a slight sting on his wound, Din lifts Luke’s shirt over his head, balling it up and pressing it into the still-bleeding scar on his side. “Hold this here for a moment,” he requests, “Surely this ship has some bacta spray hidden somewhere.”

A dopey smile crawls its way onto Luke’s face as he watches Din disappear into one of the storage closets on the ship. They did it. They escaped, got out of that hellhole of a prison, and in no time at all they’ll be back with Grogu and the others.

Luke will reunite Din and Grogu, and his mission will have been a success. Everything will be back to normal, everything will be okay, and this will soon be a thing of the past. It’s a good thing it’s over with, Luke knows this, and yet…

And yet, there’s a little part of him that feels almost sad. Like he’s not ready to give this up, even though he doesn’t even know what “this” is.

Luke rests his head back on the wall, depleted of any and all energy he might have, barely able to hold his shirt to the wound and keep his eyes open at the same time. Everything feels like it’s taking a thousand percent effort, even the smallest of tasks like staying conscious.

It’d be so easy to just slip away into sleep, he thinks idly, his eyes drooping and vision blurring until the stars outside look like one big blob.

Faintly, as though he’s muffled underwater, Luke can hear Din saying something from somewhere, but he’s too tired to understand what he’s saying (or care, in all honesty). Luke slurs something out that is most likely unintelligible nonsense, and Din responds with something muffled once more but closer than before.

The shirt falls from Luke’s grasp, and something is sprayed onto the wound. It stings for a second, a sharp, clarifying agony, but then it quickly lightens into a faint tingling sensation, not unlike the way he felt when Din’s thumb had so tenderly brushed—

Pull yourself together, Sleepy Luke, he mentally chastises himself, and he stares at Din through half-lidded, bleary eyes.

“We’ll talk when you wake up,” Din says soothingly, and as though he’s been waiting for those words, Luke’s eyes slip shut.

Now that he’s no longer fighting for his life, Luke realizes how much his body aches. Expending so much energy, and running on little food and sleep at that, has left him feeling hollow and fulfilled at the same time, an interesting combination.

Even with the aches and sores that wrack his body, Luke feels himself hurtle towards sleep at a speed he previously thought impossible, and it’s only minutes later that he falls asleep to the phantom touch of a thumb on his lips.

Chapter Text

The day following their grand escape is… awkward, to say the least.

Thanks to the bacta spray, the gaping wound in Luke’s side fades into an ugly pink scar in a matter of hours, and he punches in the coordinates to his planet quickly after waking up again.

Din doesn’t seem to be keen on talking, but Luke can feel his gaze burning him from the inside out, even through the emotionless beskar helmet he’s got. He certainly looks more intimidating with the armor on, not that Luke has any idea what he looks like under it, but he gives off an aura of reservedness that he didn’t have in the cell.

Luke would give anything to know what the Mandalorian is thinking right now. Is he excited to see his son again? Afraid of Luke for his invasion of the minds earlier? Angry?

Is he feeling anything at all?

“We’ll talk when you wake up,” Din had said, and yet he’s not talking at all, practically a beskar-clad ghost as he sneaks around the ship.

Luke can feel something buzzing inside of Din, something uncertain and messy, beautiful and ugly at the same time, a spectacular contradiction buried deep inside all that armor he wears.

“The ride has been smooth so far,” Luke comments, once the silence has stretched on for long enough, and Din’s helmet lifts from where he’s inspecting the storage containers for the fifth time today, “We’ll probably make it to the temple by tomorrow at this rate.”

Din doesn’t respond for a while. His gloved fingers rest on one of the storage containers, and when he finally does speak, his voice is hoarse. “I am not sure…” he clears his throat, a tinny and hollow echo through his modulator, “If seeing Grogu is wise.”

Luke can’t help the surge of shock and bewilderment that rockets through his body, unable to repress widening his eyes at his friend(?).

“Are you kidding? After—after all we’ve been through? Why would you say that?” he stammers out, the antithesis to his calm persona he shows his students.

He prides himself on his patience with his students, and yet here he is now, spluttering and spitting like a sentient teapot being told it can’t live anymore.

Being around Din makes him feel young again, back when he first realized he was Force-sensitive, when anything and everything could make him frustrated and excited in the span of ten seconds.

Din makes him feel young again, but he also makes him feel stupid, like every lesson he has ever taught or been taught has been wiped from his brain as he stands in front of a Mandalorian, naïve and useless again.

Luke desperately searches Din’s posture, his helmet, his armor, for something—anything—that can betray his thoughts, but it gives away nothing, a wall set up in place. Even searching his soul doesn’t tell him anything, because Din’s emotions are messy and complicated and ugly, held together by a thin string of self-control.

There is one emotion, however, that Luke can pinpoint, because he feels it all too often in himself.

“You’re scared,” he realizes, staring up at Din with what he hopes is empathy and not pity.

Din makes no indication that he confirms or denies. There is something inherently tragic about his armor, how he wears it as a second skin, how he feels the need to be invulnerable and impenetrable while wearing it.

“Why are you scared?” Luke asks. “You can come back; I told you this at the beginning. You can come visit Grogu whenever you want!”

“I know,” Din murmurs quietly, “I am very grateful for your kindness.”

Din turns around to walk away, having the audacity to believe this conversation is over—which it most certainly is not—and Luke grabs his arm, lightning quick.

For a short, terrifying moment, he thinks Din will pull away, yank his arm away and sever the tender, uncertain connection the two have developed, but he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t pull away, and Luke shouldn’t feel as relieved as he does. “Something’s bothering you,” he states, because it is fact, Din cannot refute a literal Jedi about this, “It’s hurting you.”

Din sighs, heavy and world-weary in his helmet. His armor looks heavy, like it’s weighing down on him, drowning him.

Luke barrels on, unafraid, because even though their friendship is tense and strange, blossoming from trauma and torture, it’s special, something he’s never had with another person before. It should scare him, it clearly scares Din, but he finds that he’s not afraid of it—rather, he welcomes it, relishes in the unknown because it’s what he has learned to do.  

“Something’s eating you alive, Din,” he says, relishing in the pleasantly cool temperature of Din’s armor on his hand, “I want you to tell me, more than anything, but…”

Din sounds breathless, even through the helmet. “But?”

“I trust you,” Luke answers, a fragile and thin response but so, so important, “I trust you to handle this however you see fit. That’s—it’s what we do, right? Trust each other?”

He gives Din a shaky, crooked smile, but it quickly falters when he feels a warm, gloved hand cradle the back of his neck, sending goosebumps up his arms. Slowly, gently, giving Luke a thousand chances to move away, Din brings his helmet to Luke’s forehead, touching the two together in a gesture that feels a thousand times more intimate than any of their interactions in the cell.

“Ruusaanyc,” Din says, his soft voice brimming with something akin to awe, “I trust you, Luke Skywalker. You saved my life countless times, risked your own even more, all for the sake of rectifying a misunderstanding. Why?”

The cool touch of metal leaves Luke’s forehead, but Din is still looking at him, helmet burning through his body and making his legs go gooey for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with the sudden lurch out of hyperspace.

For a moment, Luke is lost for words, utterly flabbergasted at the thought of someone not doing what he did. “I did it because it’s the right thing to do,” he eventually answers.

He’s not lying—it is the right thing to do. Regardless of his status, of his tall and imposing yet vulnerable and soft nature, and although this is Din, Luke would have done the same thing no matter who Grogu’s father was.

That same half-chuckle from yesterday is back, escaping Din’s helmet as barely a whisper of light. “I owe you a great debt for your selflessness, Skywalker, but I doubt you will let me pay you anything of monetary value.”

“You’d be correct,” Luke replies, his grin coming back with a vengeance. He’s well aware of how stupid he looks right now, grinning like an idiot at the guy he has a big, fat crush on, but he doesn’t really care.

Din could never feel the same way, and Luke would still be happy that he got to spend this time with him. Obviously, Din doesn’t reciprocate his feelings—he made it very clear that Jedi and Mandalorian are ancient enemies, and Luke feels lucky enough that Din trusts him at all. Asking for romance… that’d be too much, it’d sever whatever feeble connection they’ve already built.

The stars slow down from speeding blurs into individual lights, twinkling all around the ship, suspended in time forever, some stars born yesterday and others a million years older.

“Instead of credits, I would…” Din pauses, suddenly unsure of himself, but surges on nevertheless, “I would offer you my protection. I don’t doubt your abilities, and I believe you would defeat me a thousand times in battle, but I am still a formidable warrior.”

Din smoothly gets down on one knee and places a fist over his heart, his helmet’s gaze cast to the metal floor.

“Luke Skywalker,” Din’s voice is husky and smooth, and Luke pretends like him saying his first name doesn’t send a shiver down his spine, “I offer my unyielding loyalty to you, and only you. Should you sing my name across the galaxy, I will dance through the stars to fight in your stead or by your side.”

What?

For lack of a better word, Luke is stunned.

He may not know much about Mandalorian culture—like, for instance, if this sort of loyalty proclamation is considered normal—but he does know how much they honor three things. Honor, character, two things that Din has very clearly shown an unbelievable amount of respect for, but also…

Loyalty.

One of the most important ideas to the culture of Mandalorians, and yet here Din is, offering unwavering loyalty to Luke on a silver platter. And saying his name in a really sexy voice. Luke briefly wonders if he’s dreaming because there’s no way this is happening.

“This goes both ways, you know,” he tells Din, whose helmet tilts up to look at him, “If you’re in any trouble, I’ll—I—”

Luke huffs out a sigh, frustrated. Why is it that words come so easily with his students, yet he turns into some blubbering mess in front of the sexy-voiced Mandalorian who just confessed undying loyalty to his ancient enemy?

Does he have any idea how much of a fool he makes Luke? The Jedi who destroyed two Death Stars and defeated both Vader and the Emperor? The golden boy of the resistance?

“There will always be a place for you to stay at the temple,” Luke decides to say, and while it isn’t nearly as beautifully eloquent as the words from Din, they still hold true, “As long as you want, as often as you’d like.”

“This is the way,” Din agrees, standing up and heading towards the window.

There’s something heavier in the conversation, a beat that perhaps flew above Luke’s head, but he isn’t sure what it is. Something about the conversation has changed Din’s demeanor, shedding the frustration and fear in his messy twist of emotions that makes way for something else, something new and unsteady yet bright and so vulnerable.

It feels like a version of trust Luke has never seen before, fascinating and terrifying at the same time. Like the Force, he thinks idly, except this is something outside the Force, something he can explore without needing any meditation at all.

Luke finds himself following Din, as though his armor is a magnet, pulling him closer and closer until they’re side by side, shoulders touching as they both stare at the planet slowly coming into view.

“Grogu will be happy to see you,” Luke says, “He thinks about you all the time.”

A hand hovers over Luke’s shoulder, uncertain and questioning. “Family is everything to my people,” Din replies, “Different from the Jedi ways, from what I understand.”

“How so?” Luke asks, reaching up to rest Din’s hand on his shoulder. It’s warm, comforting, bringing Luke back to memories that shouldn’t feel as comforting as they do.

“We’re selfish,” Din admits, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb back and forth on Luke’s exposed skin from where his robe has opened, “Possessive. Leaving Grogu in your care hurt just as much as taking off my helmet.”

Luke hums thoughtfully. It makes sense, he supposes, that they would be ancient enemies. The selfish and the selfless, two great warriors, unable to see past their differences. To think of what we could have accomplished together, he wonders.

“I looked away,” Luke says, “I didn’t know about your people, though, I just…”

“Felt it?”

Luke blinks in surprise, only to realize that Din is joking. The little farm boy from Tatooine that still lives in his heart is squealing and blushing at the idea of Din being comfortable enough around him to joke, to loosen up, to allow someone this close.

“Yeah,” he responds with a chuckle, “I guess I just felt it.”

The ship lands safely in the jungle, about ten miles from the temple. Luke’s reasoning for landing so far away is so he doesn’t scare the others in case they see an Imperial ship and freak out.

Hiking through the dense and humid jungle is surprisingly pleasant with Din as a companion. He’s a great listener when he isn’t half-dead from torture injuries or forcibly calm under the pressure of escaping an imperial ship, and the walk feels ten times shorter when he has someone to chat with.

It’s refreshing, honestly, being around someone who isn’t a student of his, or someone who recognizes him, or someone who will recount super embarrassing stories about him. He feels safe, willing to let his Jedi persona drop enough to tap into who he used to be before all this mess.

Din is particularly receptive to stories about Grogu, and Luke can practically taste the excitement buzzing around inside his beskar, right next to that unfamiliar emotion that burns brighter than ever. Luke feels a burst of pride surge through him at the sight of Din looking more relaxed than ever. His hand isn’t even resting on his blaster, that’s how relaxed he is!

“And Meeko is really great, he and Grogu are practically best friends! Faralda says he’s gross when he eats frogs and other weird things, but I see the way she slips him extra food at mealtimes. Oh, and don’t even get me started on Xel, he’s the one always getting in trouble with Grogu. You know, I once caught them—”

Din stops in his tracks, successfully interrupting Luke without saying a word, and he follows the focus of the helmet until he sees a roaring river in front of them, cold water spraying mist into his face, a satisfying relief in the warm humidity of the jungle.

It’s a few meters wide, too far for the average person to jump over, and too deep to wade through. Luke can’t help the little grin that crosses his face at the opportunity to show off. Obviously, this isn’t really the Jedi way, but at heart he’s still an excitable boy from Tatooine, and regardless of any teachings or beatings, he will always hold that part of himself close to his chest.

With a grin of excitement, Luke launches himself in the air, allowing his body to become lighter than a feather, soaring up and up until he glides back down, landing on the other side of the river with a gentle tap on the ground.

Over the roar of water, he barely registers Din’s modulated voice saying something, and Luke cups his hands over his mouth, shouting over the spraying and spluttering water.

“What?!”

“Showoff!” Din roars back, and either Luke has finally gone insane or he detects a smile in his shouting voice.

Good. The Mandalorian deserves to smile more.

“Let’s see if you can do any better, beskar-head!” Luke taunts, hands on his hips, undeniably curious as to how Din will cross this river.

Will he use the hook he keeps in his armor, right under his wrist? Or maybe he’ll do some insane trick to glide over the river, skipping across it like a giant, heavy rock?

Luke hides a chuckle at his train of thought and watches Din scan the river, a million ideas presumably racing through that silly helmet of his.

“Are you not going to magic me across the river?” Din eventually calls out, a teasing lilt to his soft and musical tone that widens the smile on Luke’s face so much it hurts.

How am I ever going to say goodbye to you, Din?

“Not anymore!” Luke replies, grinning at the instant change in Din’s posture, going from teasing and bantering to analytical, surveying the inside of the river with whatever he’s got going on inside that helmet.

It’s getting ridiculous at this point—how disappointed must the past Jedi be, seeing Luke stumbling over his feet for a person who prides on his selfishness and feeds into his own possessiveness, greedily stealing all the fruit from a tree and only giving it to those he sees fit?

Din is everything a Jedi shouldn’t be. He’s quick to jump to conclusions, brutish, doing whatever he can to get what he wants regardless of consequences, hard to forgive and even harder to forget.

For kriff’s sake, Luke has never even seen his face. He doesn’t know what he looks like, only what he sounds and acts like. Reserved, quiet, calculating, quick-tempered, distrusting… but never cruel. How could he possibly be falling for someone that he barely knows?

It’s not like the profession of undying loyalty from the ship is doing him any favors in the “Try Not to Fall In Love With Din” department, either, only fueling the fire. Din has done so much for him—trusted, held, treated, and he allows Luke to do what he’s been denied his whole life, to touch and feel and simply be.

Amidst Luke’s one-sided turmoil, he notices Din tilting his helmet, as though he can sense the warring emotions battling it out in his mind.

In the blink of an eye, Din is suddenly submerged in the water, dropping into the river like he accidentally stepped in it, and Luke rushes to the edge of the river, eyes searching the speeding surface for any signs of reflective beskar.

“Din?!” he exclaims, confusion and concern battling it out in his mind, any thoughts of kissing Din pushed to the side for the time being (which will probably not be very long).

Suddenly, the water in front of him explodes, and he falls back on his ass, landing with a loud thump as the sun illuminates the burst of water in front of him. With a loud clank, Din lands on the ground above Luke, rivulets of water streaking down his armor and sparkling in the warm sunlight.

The council (me) has decided that you are way too attractive for a man in armor, Luke thinks, but that might not be the wisest thing to say out loud, so instead he opts for a snarkier approach.

“I’m the showoff?” he teases, putting on a tone of mock offense as he shields his eyes from the sun that bounces off Din’s shiny armor.

That low, soft chuckle that Luke has grown addicted to returns, dipping the world in a haze of sparkles as Din reaches out a hand. “I don’t need wizardry to show off,” the Mandalorian says, and Luke tries to imagine all the different ways he might be smiling.

Does he have a smirk, like Han? Or does he give more of a charming grin like Lando? Maybe he has a toothy smile, like Luke himself.

Luke takes Din’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled up, and finds that his nose is only mere inches away from the bottom of his helmet.

“You’re very close,” Luke blurts out, forcefully yelling at himself in his mind so that his whole face doesn’t turn bright red.

Din instantly steps back, a knee-jerk reaction not too dissimilar from how he pulled away from Luke just yesterday, and kriff that really feels like weeks ago now.

“I… apologize,” Din says after an awkward pause of Luke totally not getting mesmerized by the way the water drips from his armor, “Being with someone is unfamiliar to me. You must understand, I feel a magnetic pull to you. It’s unlike anything I’ve felt before.”

Luke’s throat dries up. Do all Mandalorians have such a romantic connotation to their words? How does he not understand how this sounds? Being with someone? They must really take these sorts of loyalties seriously, if his words are anything to go by.

Din shuffles his feet for a moment, helmet cast towards the ground, gloves flexing, and any romantic context flies out the window when Luke catches wind of the guilt and nerves overshadowing that beautifully bright feeling from before.

Oh, great, now he’s made Din feel guilty! This is the first time he’s had a friend like Luke, and he’s mucking it up already! Great job, Skywalker. Luke mentally socks himself in the gut before quickly apologizing to Din.

“No, I didn’t—sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Luke quickly protests, shaking his hands with a vehemence that would surprise his students, “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, that’s all! I know, um, with the armor, and the whole ‘lone bounty hunter’ thing, you probably don’t, uh, you’re not, um, used to physical touch—which is fine, really! I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable because I really like what we have right now and I don’t want to screw it up by—”

Luke’s increasingly panicked rambling is interrupted by the feeling of cold, wet beskar against his forehead, light yet grounding at the same time, quieting the flurry of thoughts that pass by too quick to grasp onto any one in particular.

“Trust,” Din murmurs, just barely above a whisper, one gloved hand just barely resting on Luke’s arm, “Please trust that I would not initiate something I don’t want to do.”

Luke’s heart aches at how much he wants this to mean more than just care and loyalty. It’s greedy, he knows, and selfish, but he so badly wants more, even though he’s already been given so much, and it’s so unlike how he’s felt before that it feels like an unwelcome yet beautiful juxtaposition.

“Okay,” Luke agrees, “Now, what does this mean?”

“What does what mean?”

Luke grabs Din’s helmet and bonks it against his forehead in a less tender reenactment of the gesture. “This,” he repeats, “What does it mean?”

Din hesitates for a minute, and Luke takes that as a means to keep walking, still curious yet content if it’s something he doesn’t want to talk about. There are plenty of things he doesn’t want to talk about, so he should respect Din, even though the curiosity is eating him alive on the inside.

Luke cannot wait to meditate again, to try and understand these weird and unfamiliar emotions swirling around in his gut.

“It can mean many things,” Din finally speaks, and Luke lights up both at his companion finally talking and also the temple slowly coming into view at the top of the hill, “Trust, loyalty, care, favoritism…”

Luke nudges Din playfully at the last word, and the Mandalorian tapers off as the hike begins to get strenuous, a physical challenge that Luke gleefully (and almost sadistically) remembers making his students climb up and down the hill as a test of physical endurance.

“Luke.”

The jungle floor turns into a slip-n-slide all of a sudden at the mention of his first name, and Luke pretends like he isn’t about to fall on his ass in front of Din. “Yeah?” he responds breathlessly.

“Your customs are different from mine. You must think we’re moving too fast, but…”

“But?”

Luke thinks he might be going delusional. Why does everything Din says sound so different from what he actually means? How can someone be so blunt in his words yet so mysterious and vague at the same time?

He’s a frustrating paradox that Luke might think he’s actually falling in love with. Isn’t that ironic? Din asking if their friendship is moving too fast when Luke is quite possibly head over heels for him? Will he ever see Luke in the way he wants him to?

“In my culture, time is unforgiving, and we do not conform to it beyond what is by law of nature,” Din explains, grunting as he shoves a particularly gnarly vine away from his helmet, “Bonds form in a matter of days, we adopt children mere weeks after we meet them. I cannot express how grateful I am that you’ve reciprocated my loyalty, but I don’t wish for you to think we’re moving too fast.”

If it were up to me, we would be moving even faster in a completely different direction, Luke thinks, but he is a Jedi, and Jedi are supposed to be the patient ones, not Mandalorians, so he just dips his head to prompt Din to continue.

“Like you said to me earlier,” Din continues, “I never want you to feel uncomfortable, and I know you want to take things slow. However, if I ever take my helmet off with you…”

The air feels charged, thick with an electric tension, as though a lightning bolt is about to strike in between the two unlikely friends. Luke feels overwhelmed, dozens of emotions punching him in the gut like some sort of empathetic yet sadistic bounty hunter.

He waits for Din to finish, a thousand different possibilities entering his head, each one more selfish and stupid than the last.

“You don’t need to look away.”

The proverbial bounty hunter in Luke’s brain delivers the final blow, a sickening blend of selfish want and fearful apprehension digging a hole in his gut.

“Din—”

“I trust you,” Din says, and Luke so badly wants him to replace that word with another, but he’s learned to be satisfied with what he has now, “But I can wait for you to trust me, too.”

How many times has Luke been robbed of choice? He’s slain armies and toppled empires, he’s been the sole hope of a dying breed, he’s been subject to battle after battle, throwing himself into danger because if he doesn’t, then who will?

Din is offering him everything he wants on a silver platter. More time with him, time with Grogu, placing every ounce of barely earned trust into Luke after so little, and now he’s offering one of the only things Luke doesn’t have.

Part of him wants to see Din as soon as possible, the moment he takes off his helmet, to put a face to the soft touches and musical words and the unending kindness. The other, more rational part of him, is scared.

Scared that if he lays eyes on Din, he won’t be able to go back, he’ll fall fully in love and won’t be able to crawl out of it, doomed to betray Din’s trust by confessing his love and ruining everyone around him.

“Thank you,” Luke finally whispers, just as they reach the steps of the temple.

Sweat drips down his brow as he stares at the temple before him, heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of it not being burned down, or fallen apart, or blown to bits, or scratched by Garbor.

Speak of the devil—the cat, the myth, the legend himself is sprawled out at the front doors, snoring lazily and barely sparing Din and Luke a glance before going right back to sleep.

“That’s Garbor,” Luke explains as he steps over the cat.

“Ah.”

Din dips his head in a nod, following in Luke’s footsteps. His armor clashes with the temple, tight and modern where the temple is loose and historical, and he walks with uncomfortable movements, as though he’s afraid of being here, like the ghost of Yoda is going to jump out from the shadows and strangle him to death.

As hilarious as the thought is, Luke doesn’t want Din to be afraid of this place, but just as he turns to comfort him, he’s interrupted by the sound of footsteps and loud squeals.

“Master Luke!”

The first of his students to reach him is Faralda, robes flowing as she jumps onto Luke with an uncharacteristic force, squeezing him tightly and burying her face into his shoulder. Xel is hot on Faralda’s heels, just barely skidding to a stop in time to crush Luke in a bone-squeezing hug from his front, forked tongue poking out of his mouth forgetfully.

“Hey, kid!”

Luke glances up from the two bundles of joy in his arms to see Han leaning on one of the columns, eyebrows raised in bemusement and, if he squints hard enough, relief.

“Don’t disappear like that again,” he drawls, feigning boredom, “Scared the heck out of Leia and the kids.”

“Not you?” Luke challenges with an easygoing grin.

Han breaks out into his infamous smirk and strides over to him, shoving the two kids away to clap Luke on the back himself, smelling like grease and oil and home. “Nah, I knew you’d come ba—”

Han instantly straightens up and narrows his eyes, and Luke worriedly follows his gaze until he sees Din standing a few feet away, arms crossed. “A bounty hunter?!” he hisses, eyes flicking back and forth between Din and Luke so much he worries he might get whiplash.

“He’s not here for you,” Luke groans, as much as Han is convinced that everything is somehow about him.

Din tilts his helmet and inches his hand tantalizingly close to his blaster. “I can be,” he replies, and Luke is surprised to hear that he doesn’t seem to be joking, “You’re worth a lot, Solo.”

Han actually flinches when Din twitches his hand on his blaster, and Luke has to suppress rolling his eyes when he realizes that Din is actively enjoying the act of making Han squirm.

“Right, let’s all just—”

“Luke!”

The telltale stomp of an angry Leia makes Luke unconsciously curl in on himself, wincing as she storms into view, robes flowing with fury as Meeko and Grogu stumble behind her, careful not to trip over her robes.

Luke gladly accepts the painful punch to his shoulder because the hug she wraps him in immediately after is so worth it. “You idiot,” she seethes, jabbing a finger in his chest, “Do you know how worried I was when you didn’t show up? How worried everyone was? You’d better have a very good excuse, or else I swear to why is there a Mandalorian.”

Leia’s gaze snaps to Din, unfazed by the not quite six feet tall hunk of beskar in front of her. Just as quickly as she sees him, however, she turns back to look at Grogu, who is struggling in Meeko’s grip, and then back at Din.

The students must have had a very fun time when they realized she’s Force-sensitive, Luke thinks, watching in real time as her eyes soften and her lips part in realization.

“We were captured by imperial forces,” Luke explains, holding out his hands placatingly and trying not to smile as Meeko sets Grogu down to rush over and hug him, “I promise I’ll explain everything over dinner, okay?”

Leia balls her hands into fists and exhales heavily, like the weight of the universe is on her shoulders. Luke wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, honestly. “Fine,” she acquiesces, “But we’re leaving tomorrow at dawn.”

Luke nods in agreement, but before he can see anything, Grogu launches himself in the air and flies right into Din’s arms, causing a grunt from the Mandalorian as he accepts his weight.

The room goes silent as Din holds a happily babbling Grogu in his arms, cradling him like he can’t quite believe he’s real. A tremor is just barely visible in his hand as he places his glove on the side of Grogu’s tiny face, gentle and delicate and full of so much emotion it bounces through the room.

He holds Grogu like he’s the most delicate thing in the galaxy, like he wants to shield him from every sin and temptation the universe could offer, expression indiscernible behind that chrome visor but clearly visible in the way he bleeds bittersweet relief.

Everyone is acutely attuned to the emotions bleeding from both Din and Grogu (sans Han), and the silence is respectable as Din brushes his thumb oh-so-gently behind the little creature’s enormous ears.

“Hey, kid,” Din whispers, a thousand promises and wishes swirling around in his breaking voice, “It’s good to see you.”

Chapter Text

To say that Luke is “happy” would be the understatement of the epoch.

Luke is happy when he receives a message from Leia after weeks of radio silence. He’s happy when Han pats him on the back and ruffles his hair, he’s happy when Chewie gives him a big, suffocating hug, he’s happy when his days are calm and easy and his meditation flows like a gentle stream. Luke is happy when his students perform a maneuver for the first time, or the fiftieth time, or the thousandth time, and he watches them get better and better, eyes hardening from a naïve sparkle into something confident yet not void of their childlike innocence.

Sitting amongst his friends, both old and new, peers and pupils alike, feasting on soup and crackers and bread until his stomach feels bloated? That doesn’t make him happy, because happy isn’t enough to describe him in this moment.

Perhaps there will never be a word to describe how he feels, watching Xel make funny faces in the reflection of Din’s armor, sticking out his tongue and waggling one of his loose teeth while using sacred beskar as a mirror.

Ecstatic, perhaps, although that would leave the assumption that Luke is jittery with excitement, when he actually feels rather lazy in the moment, relaxed in his chair in a way his students have never seen before yet his friends are beyond used to, watching Din cradle Grogu in one arm while his other drums against the table.

Whatever Luke is feeling right now, he wants to bottle it up and send it to the stars so that maybe it will drive the sticks out of his former Jedi’s asses.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Through the warmth in his heart at the sight of everyone he loves laughing and sharing mirth together, he feels an inkling of guilt as the bowl in front of Din remains full of soup, certainly cold by now and soon to be snatched up by Grogu if his hungry eyes have anything to say about it.

While Luke sits next to Din, who has Xel on his other side still making funny faces, at his right is Leia, who casts the occasional indiscernible glance at him while Han regales Meeko with exaggerated stories from his youth about explosions and beating up bounty hunters, all while shooting Din the biggest, smarmiest grins he can manage.

Still, even with Din unable to eat in front of everyone, he does not seem unhappy, rather content to see Grogu with him.

A yelp on Din’s left makes Luke peer over—Faralda has somehow taken over Xel’s seat, and he has no doubt that she was the cause of the noise.

She faces Din’s helmet without a single ounce of fear, something that both warms Luke’s heart and makes it swell with pride, and her chin is jutted out and up to make herself appear more intimidating. She politely folds her hands in her lap and levels Din with a glare that almost rivals Leia.

“You’re a Mandalorian,” she states, leaving no room for denial or refusal—not that Din would ever refute that claim.

Din dips his head in acknowledgement, and Luke seethes with jealousy at the notion that he could very well be smirking under that helmet and Faralda would be none the wiser, unable to yell at him for not taking this seriously.

“Shouldn’t you be with the rest of your people?” Faralda asks, blunt but not necessarily with any malicious intent.

Luke stiffens at the mention—even the well-hidden Jedi are privy to the knowledge about Mandalore and its current state, the scattering of the people of Mandalore across the galaxy, split apart far and wide while its former planet struggles to breathe from poison.

Din shifts in his seat to face Faralda, keeping Grogu held comfortably in one arm in the process. Luke is curious himself, having little knowledge of his status as a Mandalorian. He knows not every Mandalorian wears as much beskar as he does, and fewer still willingly travel on their lonesome, so Luke can’t help but eavesdrop as he pretends to listen to Leia and Han.

“I was a Child of the Watch,” Din explains, voice patient and steady, warm with the atmosphere of the temple, “We live… different lives from the average Mandalorian. Many Mandalorians take their helmets off whenever they deem fit, but because I spent my life with the kind who see removing the helmet around most as breaking the Creed, I was in for a shock when I first met a Mandalorian who took off their helmet without care.”

Faralda nods seriously, no doubt filing every bit of information in her brain to use at a later date and crosses her arms. “You said you ‘were’ a Child of the Watch. Did you leave?”

Alright, this might be a little too much information at once. Sure, Faralda holds no ill will, but any man’s willingness to give away information is limited, especially with children.

All this being said, Luke is trying very hard to tamper down his own curiosity.

“I am an Apostate,” Din tells her, but while she waits with bated breath, he doesn’t continue.

Faralda scowls but quickly schools her expression into passive nonchalance, something that Luke hopes she didn’t learn from him, because it’s honestly a bit scary. “Right, an Apostate,” she sniffs, “I know what that is!”

Luke has no idea what an Apostate is, but Din doesn’t seem too keen on explaining it, so he decides to pretend like he’s just now tuning into the conversation. “Terribly sorry to interrupt your interrogation,” he says smoothly, “But I’m afraid this Mandalorian needs to eat. You can talk to him more in the morning, after meditation.”

Faralda huffs in annoyance but turns away to give Xel his seat back. Luke stands up and offers a hand to Din, feeling emboldened by the warm food and warmer conversation. He’s surprised at how quickly Din takes his hand to be lifted out of his seat.

Luke pretends like his pure strength is what helped lift Din up and that he didn’t use the Force. Din can’t go around thinking he’s the strong one, even though Luke is well aware of his arms—

Kriff, his arms—

Pull yourself together, Luke, he chides himself mentally, desperately trying not to let his mind get pulled somewhere else while Din’s gloved thumb rubs back and forth on his hand.

It’s distracting, unfairly so, and Luke barely has the sense to snatch the bowl of soup from the table before leading Din up some stairs and down the hall, right into his room with the cracked windows and barren insides.

Din stares at the simple bedroll and bookshelf, then the small pile of rocks in the corner, the ivy growing through the window, the golden glow of sunset drenching the room in a glowing haze.

It takes a monumental amount of effort to break away from Din’s hand, but Luke does it anyways because he is a Jedi and a warrior who does not need to be so needy and desperate that he clings onto Din’s hand like a lovesick dog.

“We can go back down in a minute,” Luke says, passing the bowl of now-lukewarm soup to his friend, “I didn’t want my favorite beskar-head to starve.”

Din takes the bowl of soup, and Luke walks over to the window while a metallic hiss sounds from nearby.
“You are too kind to me, Luke,” the Mandalorian says.

Luke doesn’t miss the lack of modulation to his voice. His knuckles turn white with the grip he holds on the windowsill, gazing at the golden flecks of light fluttering towards the floor.

One glance behind him—no, even at the window’s reflection in front of him—is all it would take. He has Din’s permission to look, he knows this. He doesn’t care if Din’s face is marred into fleshy bits and pieces, he would love him all the same, but something unconscious keeps his eyes rooted to the ground.

“Do your students have beds?” Din asks, no doubt staring at the threadbare bedroll that is the main cause of Luke’s recent back pain. It takes no effort to read between the words, as Din is not very talented at hiding his true feelings.

He would make a terrible Jedi, Luke thinks with a wry smile—but he knows what Din is really asking.

Does Grogu have to sleep on the floor?

Luke smiles and shakes his head. “Technically, Grogu has a crib, but he prefers to spend his nights sleeping next to Meeko. He and Faralda have beds of their own, and Xel sleeps underwater, in a tank I bought on Coruscant.”

Din hums thoughtfully but doesn’t reply.

The urge to turn around hits Luke like a blaster beam. What does Din’s face look like right now? Are his eyebrows pinched? Is his mouth naturally upturned, or downturned? What about his eyes? What color are they? Does he smile often? Does he blush?

He wants what he had just two nights ago, to hold Din’s face in his hands but without any scars or blood. He wants to hold and be held, to share the burdens that weigh down on him like his armor. He wants to kiss him, on his mouth and nose and cheek, surrounded by the trees and stars and water.

Wants, a Jedi does not, Yoda’s annoying voice scolds Luke in the back of his mind, and he lets all of his want float away, light as air.

Well, his want leaves for about three seconds, and then suddenly there is a hand on his back, right below his shoulders. It’s void of any glove, just as warm as it’s always been, and Luke feels the longing slam back into him with the force of a thousand Jedi.

“I have to go.”

Luke startles at the closeness of Din’s mouth, lips just a breath away from the shell of his ear, and if he weren’t so certain in his ways then he might think Din is doing this on purpose. “Go where?”

Din’s hand lowers, arm extending until it encircles part of his waist. Luke doesn’t protest, so Din doesn’t remove it, his arm burning through Luke’s skin and branding the memory of its warmth there forever.

“As much as I wish I could stay here forever,”

He wants to stay here forever, Luke thinks giddily, breath held and stolen all at once.

“I’m afraid I have a job of my own.”

Luke smiles solemnly. Really, he has no reason to be sad—Din wants to come back, he will come back, he is a responsible bounty hunter with a job, and Luke can’t get in the way of that just because he’s wildly attracted to said bounty hunter who may or may not have professed his unwavering loyalty.

“As do I,” Luke replies, before moving onto subjectively more pressing matters, “Uh, Din?”

“Yes?”

Oh, kriff, how do I say this without sounding like an absolute moron?

Upon deciding that there is no feasible way to ask this without sounding dumb, Luke takes a deep breath and glances down at the hand on his waist, almost on his stomach. It’s tanned, roughened with callouses and it’s also the first look he’s ever gotten of Din.

He pretends like it doesn’t make his mouth dry up and wonders if maybe he’s also big in—

No, no, absolutely not. Luke will not be thinking thoughts like this, he refuses to take advantage of something like this, it’s gross and wrong.

“Will you, um,” you sound like an idiot, Luke, “Will you come back?”

For a moment, Luke is greeted with silence, and he fears the worst. He has no reason to fear the worst, because Din could disappear forever and Luke would learn to be happy with the knowledge that he at least met him, but he fears it nevertheless.

 “Trust,” Din eventually reminds Luke, and his heart aches with the urge to kiss away the emotions swelling in his Mandalorian’s voice, “We swore an oath of loyalty to one another, Luke Skywalker. We are one, together, and when we are apart it will never be for eternity.”

Trust.

I trust you, they’ve told each other a thousand times now. It’d do them well to believe it.

Still, Luke hurts and aches at what’s so close yet so far. Din’s words aren’t helping, either, vague and confusing and easy to misconstrue as something like a marriage vow.

The sun has dipped below the horizon, painting Luke’s bedroom in splashes of pink and purple, darkening more with every minute that drips by.

“Trust,” Luke agrees, and as though he is possessed by the brave Luke Skywalker of the past who destroyed empires, he turns around in Din’s arms.

In retrospect, he thinks there should have been a more climactic feel to this moment. A swelling orchestra, a burst of light, ten thousand singing angels descending on the Jedi temple as Luke drinks in the face of the man who made him want.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers the nose, the dark brown hair, the stubble on his face and every line and spot and divot.

Putting all this in mind, however, Luke can’t stop staring into his eyes.

Calling them brown would be laughable, albeit correct. His eyes are brown, but they’re round and huge and filled to the brim with every emotion that can’t get out of his helmet, worry and concern and a hint of something else swimming in the darkness of them.

“You’re…”

Luke can’t get the words out. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what to say, because there isn’t an accurate way to describe Din. He could easily blend in anywhere he wants with most of his features, but Luke thinks he could spot those eyes, round as planets and glittering with stars, on any planet.

Rather than reply, Din just presses his forehead against Luke’s, warm and so much better than the helmet ever felt. “For every day I’m gone, my trust in you will only grow stronger,” Din promises, smoothing his fingers down the sides of Luke’s face, “Our reunions will be plentiful and sweet.”

Luke laughs and shakes his head softly. How is it that a Mandalorian could be so poetic? Do they all speak like this, with honor-laced words, blunt and blossoming at the same time?

“You’re ridiculous,” Luke laughs into his shoulder, holding tightly without any physical barriers between them. Do you even know how you sound, Din? This is how lovers speak.

Din huffs out that chuckle Luke has grown to love, and he immediately brings his face out of his absurdly comfortable shoulder to see it.

Oh, kriff, he has dimples, as if Luke couldn’t have fallen further. The smile vanishes quickly, reversing back into a thoughtful frown, but his eyes still twinkle with just as much light as Grogu’s. It’s easy to see how you found him, he thinks with a melting heart.

Even as the evening winds down, the room darkening with only thin slivers of moonlight providing visibility, Luke feels that same giddy happiness as before. He offers the bedroll to Din, but the man declines with a sweet shake of his head and simply lays back on the floor, staring out the window at the stars.

“Grogu is happy here,” Din whispers into the silence, “I have never seen such a peaceful planet in my life.”

Luke settles down next to Din on the floor, reminded of not too long ago. Both nostalgia and relief battle it out in his gut, but he just stares at Din with the most lovesick expression possible, mapping out every single dot and line as if to memorize him.

“Sometimes I worry I’m trying too hard,” Luke confesses, “I’m always overthinking my teachings and lessons. I haven’t a clue what I’m doing, you know, teaching these students…”

Din turns to his side so that he’s facing Luke head-on, and oh, his heart sings, his stomach clenches with the urge to lean forward just an inch or two and capture their lips together. The moonlight is silky and soft, painting Din’s face with a youthful silver hue and giving his eyes a human yet ethereal glow.

He finds himself mesmerized with the features and openness of his face, a gentle vulnerability shining through the cracks in his standoffish façade. That same ball of messy emotions Luke has come to associate with Din is unraveling with every passing moment, with the unfamiliar emotion still bright in the center.

The fear, the anger, the anxiety, they’re all dimmed down, loose and intertwining with each other, flowing together instead of fighting one another. Din looks and feels so at peace right now, so vastly different from how he was just a week ago when Luke first met him.

Who could’ve thought just seeing his son could help him so much? Luke admires the steadfast love and loyalty that pours from Din just being in the same building as him, and his heart warms at the thought of Din trusting Luke enough to leave his son in his care for a while.

Luke inhales shakily as Din’s hand reaches out to his face. Even moving forward just a fraction would be enough to bring their lips together, to feed the spark that lights up in his gut every time Din touches him with feather-light hands and fingers.

Instead of kissing him, however, Din just brushes a lock of Luke’s hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear and wearing just the lightest ghost of a smile on his face. In another life, one where he knows Din can be his and they will be each other’s, perhaps he would be brave enough to kiss him under the moon’s watchful eye, but tonight, he is a coward.

Tonight, Luke will take what he is given and cherish it until the end of time, and he slips his eyes shut only once he’s drunk his fair share of Din’s features, when he’s certain he’ll never forget a single part of his face.

Din’s fingers trail from his hair to his forehead, then snake their way to his nose, brushing just barely over his lower lip before rising back up to his cheek, where they emit a dazed warmth that fills Luke from head to toe.

Just before Luke succumbs to the whispering willows of sleep, head in the clouds under Din’s gentle, innocent caresses, he hears the softest murmur from the Mandalorian, a drowsy slurring of Mando’a and Common that he can barely hear.

“Cyar’ika,” Din exhales, forehead now resting on Luke’s, “Jate’kara was mine to have met you.”

The two weeks of Din’s absence went by faster than Luke expected. He isn’t just twiddling his thumbs for Din to get by, after all—he has a job, with students to teach and mouths to feed and a whole temple of resources to use and renew.

His students are progressing excellently in their studies, performing brilliantly at their task and taking to staff fighting like fish to water. Each of them have special ways of fighting that transcend what Luke has taught them, clear guidance from the Force visible in how they spar.

Due to Grogu’s unfortunate inability to properly grip a wooden staff, he has the little critter stand next to him while observing, pointing out each flaw and surprise in detail in order to ensure that Grogu doesn’t feel left out.

Xel treats the staff like a true weapon, his moves blunt and powerful but never lacking in analytical prowess. Every move of his is calculated, albeit brash, self-assured, and tactical. Luke has no doubt that Xel will be a force to be reckoned with in battle, although he hopes he won’t have to see him fight anything more than his fellow students for a while.

Meeko is a unique character, given that he has two sets of arms and is only six years old. However, he’s very mature for his age, which both relieves and frightens Luke, as he worries of what circumstances Meeko has been through in his very short life so far. He’s uncertain with his staffs, timid and afraid but persistent, nonetheless. Luke has no doubt that, with a few more years of practice, Meeko will learn to find himself in his fighting like the others have thus far.

Faralda uses her staff almost as an extension of her body, more defensive and disabling rather than directly offensive, opting to sweep it under the feet of unsuspecting opponents instead of jabbing or smacking. She’s graceful, wielding the weapon like a dance, stealing Luke’s breath every time he watches her spar with someone.

Today is a relaxed day, with beautiful weather. A light breeze rustles the nearby trees as Luke stands outside, watching with rapt eyes as Xel and Faralda spar with their harmless weapons in the warm but not stifling air. He feels content like this, with Grogu nestled in the crook of Meeko’s arm next to him as they watch the fight.

“Watch Faralda,” Luke advises, his eyes following the movements of his students around the ground, careful not to stray too close to the edge, “Do you see what she’s doing?”

It’s hard to notice at first, but he watches in amusement as both Meeko and Grogu squint at the two fighters, weapons clashing and clacking together in a whirlwind of movements, typical for them when they get caught up in battle.

It takes only a moment, but soon Meeko speaks up while Grogu burbles out an answer. “She’s closing her eyes!” he exclaims in awe.

It’s true—Faralda’s eyes are fluttering open and closed as she leans into the Force, dodging each of Xel’s attacks with the ease of someone who allows the Force to move through them instead of around them, and Luke can’t help the surge of pride that swells up in his heart.

“That’s right,” he praises Meeko with a hand ruffling his hair, “She’s trusting in the Force, allowing it to guide her movements so she doesn’t have to guess where he is.”

Meeko opens his mouth to agree, but he soon clicks it shut as he regards Grogu with wide eyes. Grogu is wiggling in Meeko’s grip, burbling and blabbering and pointing up at the sky.

Luke glances up at the sky and smiles at the sight of a familiar ship landing just a half mile outside the temple, anticipation and excitement swirling around in his gut, just under the pride he feels for his students in the moment.

Even with the anticipation of Din’s arrival, Luke has students to teach, so he tells Grogu to hold still for just a moment while they finish watching the fight.

Luke feels Din’s presence before he sees him, as his back is turned, currently explaining to a grumbling Xel that yes, he’s an excellent fighter, but he needs to trust in the Force if he ever wants to beat Faralda, because a tactical mind can only do so much against someone who wields the Force like a Mandalorian wields beskar.

Faralda takes the high ground, thankfully, and offers to help Xel with his meditation later, and Luke dismisses them for a bit of free time around the temple while he indulges in his own selfish needs, which all include Din.

“It’s good to see you again, Din,” Luke says, finally turning around to greet his friend, “Grogu really—oof!”

His words are cut off by Din’s heavy armor wrapping him up in a hug, squeezing him tight and spinning him around in a circle before setting him down, his hands not leaving his shoulders. Luke lets out a startled laugh at the movement, head spinning just like he was mere moments ago.

“Did you miss me that much?” he jokes with a grin, eyes taking in the sight of his—no, the—Mandalorian once more, confident and headstrong but willing to share his emotions, however complicated they may be.

“My soul was missing without you, cyar’ika, the sun to my moons,” Din replies, pressing his helmet to Luke’s forehead in a chaste motion.

It takes all the effort in the world not to flush red at Din’s words, and Luke is starting to get sick and tired of the way Din casually flirts without even realizing it. The idea pops into his head as he watches Din give Grogu a brief hug and chat for a moment.

Maybe Din doesn’t realize what he’s doing to Luke because he’s never had someone flirt with him. Perhaps, if Luke gives him a taste of his own medicine, he’ll come to understand that what he’s doing isn’t exactly something friends do, and he’ll stop doing it.

Do I want him to stop doing it? Luke thinks, and then mentally punches himself in the face several times with brass knuckles. Of course I do! I can’t keep taking advantage of his words and twisting them to my beliefs, that’s cruel!

Luke glances behind Din to see that he’s dragged an enormous cart of objects and knickknacks all the way to the temple, and he quickly turns red from embarrassment rather than something else.

“Oh, Din, you didn’t have to bring that all up yourself,” he admonishes, worrying his lip between his teeth, “Why didn’t you ask me to help you?”

Din shrugs and starts wheeling it towards the temple. “Didn’t need the help,” he replies easily enough, but Luke is having none of it.

All it takes is a wave of his hand, and the giant pile of objects is floating innocuously through the air and into the temple, where Luke sets it down lightly on the floor.

“I want to help you,” Luke reminds Din, smiling fondly, “Let me help you.”

An honest-to-Force sigh escapes Din’s mouth through the helmet, but it isn’t exasperated or annoyed. Whatever it is, it intrigues Luke, but before he gets the chance to question it, the students all come bounding into the room, with Grogu toddling behind Din.

“What’s all this?” Faralda asks, frowning at the random assortment of items just sitting on the floor of the normally barren temple.

“The wonderfully kind and unbearably handsome Mandalorian has brought some gifts for you all,” Luke responds, tossing a cheeky wink towards Din, who stiffens where he’s stood, going rigid at the words.

Din is rooted to the spot, chrome visor trained on Luke as he sorts through the items on the ground. Why is he just standing there? Luke isn’t a psychic, he doesn’t know what gift is for who. Is the bed on the bottom for Din to sleep on? He hasn’t a clue, and Din isn’t exactly being helpful right now.

It takes a concerned croak from Grogu to snap Din out of his stupor, and he recovers smoothly, walking to the pile and crouching down to be at eye level with the students. One by one, he gives each student their gift, voice blunt yet caring at the same time.

He gives Faralda a set of books about ancient battle dances, watching as Faralda squeals and dashes away with the books in her arms, presumably to hop right into bed and devour every single book before the start of next week.

Grogu and Meeko each receive a small army of various stuffed creatures, ranging from loth-cats to weird bugs to one specific plushie that bears an uncanny resemblance to Garbor, who is once again snoozing on the steps of the temple like he’s never worked a day in his life.

Xel’s gift is a large bag of beautiful, shiny rocks and gemstones for his water tank, and he accepts them with a stammered thanks and a glimmer in his eye before running away to his room while Grogu and Meeko prepare to establish a monarchy with their stuffed toys, electing the Garbor-esque plush as the absolute leader.

The bed underneath all the gifts is large, big enough to fit three people comfortably, and Luke carries it up the stairs with the Force, following Din’s determined footsteps, only faltering when he reaches Luke’s room.

“Is this bed for you?” he asks, just barely managing to squeeze the bed through the door.

He watches Din take off his helmet from the corner of his eye as he sets the bet on one side of the room, right in front of the windows, puffing out his chest with pride as he watches the afternoon sun bleed onto the plain sheets.

It looks like a comfortable bed, that’s for certain, and it will hopefully alleviate Din from any of the aches and pains that come with wearing that heavy armor all the time.

“For us, mesh’la,” Din corrects, flopping onto the bed with a loud groan of approval.

Luke is quick to scowl. Sharing floor space and a room with Din is one thing, but a bed? Where they’ll probably cuddle every day? It’s a recipe for disaster, especially regarding Luke’s unrequited feelings for Din that expand far beyond the need for physical touch.

Din watches Luke closely, searching his gaze for… something. He’s not quite sure. After a few moments, Din sits up, hands hanging loosely in his lap. “Is something wrong?” he asks, eyes round and concerned.

Luke sighs heavily. The selfish part of him, the part he tries to stamp down with countless hours of meditation and frustrated lightsaber practice, wants to stay like this forever, indulging in his greedy fantasies of romance with Din while taking advantage of the Mandalorian’s need for physical touch.

The rational part of him, however, which is thankfully in charge right now, knows that this is wrong, and he needs to tell Din how he feels before this all blows up in his face and boils over into something hurtful and irreversible. Maybe, if he tells Din now and gets it over with, he can salvage their friendship into something, anything.

“Remember when we promised to be at each other’s sides? No matter what?” Luke asks, slowly building up the courage to say what he needs to say, to rip off the bandage so he can desperately try and patch it up later.

Din nods, worry etching his face and furrowing his brow. “Forever and always,” he vows, voice serious.

Like marriage, the delusional part of Luke thinks.

“Well, I’m going to say something, and you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I need you not to say anything until I’m done, okay?”

Even if he were unable to see the concern and worry in Din’s expressive, doe-like eyes, he would be able to feel it, the doubt and anxiety returning tenfold in the Mandalorian’s mind and soul. Guilt eats at Luke for bringing it back, but he powers through, nevertheless.

Luke sits down on the bed, crossing his legs, and gently takes ahold of Din’s bare hands, squeezing them tightly because he knows this might be the last chance he’ll ever get to do so.

“Ever since we were imprisoned together, I’ve been thinking about you,” he confesses quietly, unable to look Din in the eyes, “About us. Every time you touch me, every time you talk to me, it’s like my whole body lights up, and my heart melts, and—and it’s awful, I know, but I can’t help it! You talk to me like we’re together, like we’re married, like we’re a couple, and you’re so open and caring and kind that I feel horrible because I know you don’t think about me that way, but I can’t help it!”

Luke takes a shuddering breath, forcefully refusing the tears to spill. “Every morning I wake up with the urge to kiss you. I want us to hold each other like lovers do, not friends, and I want to fall apart with you and rise from the ashes with thoughts of you, and only you. I want to kiss you under the sun and moon and stars, in hyperspace, under the trees, everywhere. I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours, and I’m just—I’m so sorry for feeling like this, for taking advantage of you.”

The words spill out without real direction, just an unprepared confession leaking from Luke’s mouth with all the grace of Garbor in a glass shop, and he chokes out the barest hint of a sob, leaning forward until his forehead is on their interlinked hands and silently begging for Din to break this thick silence.

“Luke.”

He shakes his head, eyes raw and red with his attempts to not cry.

“Luke.”

“Yeah?” he chokes out, hands and body trembling with unshed emotion.

“Will you look at me?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Luke drags his gaze back up to Din’s eyes, and guilt hits him like a ton of bricks at the sight of Din looking so sad, his mouth pulled into a frown and his brows creased, eyes shining with enough sadness to drown a thousand moons.

Din breaks their handhold to cup Luke’s face, thumb brushing back and forth in the way that always drives him crazy. “Do you know what cyar’ika means?” he finally asks.

Luke shakes his head, and Din sighs quietly. “It means darling. Beloved. Sweetheart. Lover.”

“Tell me, Luke Skywalker—are those words a friend would use?”

This can’t be happening. I’ve died and gone to the skies. I’ve fallen off the cliff and broken every single bone in my body. I’m having a traumatic brain injury. I’m currently in a coma, and there’s no feasible way to save me.

Luke whimpers and lets the tears fall freely, dripping down his cheeks and onto the sheets. Kriff, he must look like such an idiot right now, sniffling and sobbing just because he’s in love with a Mandalorian who’s too kind for his own good.

“I must apologize, cyar’ika,” Din says, wiping away Luke’s tears with his thumb, “There’s been a misunderstanding between us. My profession of loyalty to you was not a simple oath between friends. It was a bond, a pact between lovers. It’s why I acknowledged how quick and sudden it was.”

I’ve been poisoned by a mysterious man on Coruscant, and I’ve hallucinated the past week of my life. This cannot possibly be happening.

“Let me ask this once again, perhaps without our cultures getting in the way.”

I have never wanted to kiss a man while I’m crying more in my entire life. If I’m dying, please let me make out with him before I’m sent to the afterlife.

“I trust you, Luke Skywalker,” Din admits, bringing his forehead to rest on Luke’s while their breathing becomes one, every shaky inhale and exhale matched by their counterpart, “I want to treat you as a lover would, from yesterday and forever onward. Our songs will become one, and I will dance with you in life and death, in battle and peace, until we become stars in the sky. If you so choose, I will kiss you once for every star in the sky, and when I run out of stars I will kiss you once for every grain of sand in the galaxy.”

Luke’s mouth goes dry. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, it’s all he could ever ask for, it’s a happy ending to his life filled with turmoil and battle and hard-fought wars. It’s a chance at peace, at love, at something he’s never gotten the chance to explore until now, with the one person who makes his heart stutter and his face pink.

Robbed of his ability to speak, Luke just nods tearfully, and Din taps his fingers on his cheek. “Have we cleared this misunderstanding now?” he teases, and Luke chokes out a laugh.

“Yeah, I think so,” he laughs, and Din shares a chuckle along with him.

This time, the silence is peaceful, no longer something Luke fears, and he revels in the feeling of being with someone, of sharing these feelings with someone and having them reciprocated.

“If it’s alright,” Din breaks the spell with a pink dusting to his ears, “May I kiss you now?”

“Yes,” Luke breathes, hoping he doesn’t sound too desperate or stupid or weird because he really wants to kiss Din and clearly Din’s wanted to kiss him back which means they’ll actually get to kiss as much as they want but he also wants their first kiss to be good and—

His lips are dry and soft, pressing feather-light and gentle to Luke’s own for just a second before pulling away, brown eyes wide and uncertain as he searches Luke’s face for any discomfort or sudden changes.

“Was that… good?” Din asks.

In lieu of an answer, Luke just laughs and tackles him onto the bed for another kiss, and then another, and another, until he’s lost count and all he can feel and think of and taste is Din.

Din, who tastes like stardust and new beginnings.

Din, who kisses with as much passion as he fights with, beautiful and poetic and perfect in every single way.

Din, who falls in love fast and hard, the moon to Luke’s sun and the students’ stars, who means the world and everything else to Luke.

I trust you, Luke thinks, dizzy with the love and kisses that pour from Din’s mouth, lips red and swollen with all the time in the world.

I love you, he says with his kisses, and neither of them have to say it for the other to understand.

I love you, Luke thinks, and he falls in love over and over, every single day, until they both become stars in the galaxy of trillions of lovers, right where they belong.

I love you, Luke thinks, and the stars next to him whisper that they love him too, they’ve loved him forever, and they will love him forever.